


Unable are the Loved to Die

by Janina



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Fighting, Littlefinger is a dick, Vampire!Petyr, bloodsucking, vampire!Jon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:25:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7909900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janina/pseuds/Janina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon is a vampire, having been changed after the battle with the White Walkers when he learned that Sansa died in childbirth. He was promised that he would see Sansa again, in another life, so he became a vampire so he could see her in every incarnation. But so did Petyr. Bitter and angry that Sansa had chosen Jon instead of him, Petyr has made it his mission to ruin Jon and Sansa every time they manage to get together in one of her lives. This time is no different. In this life, he has kidnapped Sansa as a baby and raised her to be the one to take down Jon Targaryen once and for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I have been posting this on Tumblr, but decided to bring it on over. This is all thanks to an idea I had on my wicked long commute to work, and with tremendous help to flesh it out with bluecichlid. Thank you, my dear!

“She’s been born, Your Grace.”

Jon’s lips twitched ever so slightly into a smile. “Saw it in the flames, did you?”

“I did.”

 _Good good._ If he could breathe like a human, he would be breathing easier right about now. Sansa had been born. This time it had only take fifty odd years since her last death. Her last life. He was relieved. He’d been getting ready for a deep sleep again when Melisandre had informed him that Sansa had been conceived. And then his preparations to take her away had begun. 

Along with relief, and even joy, he was worried. He always worried when Sansa was born again. There had not yet been a lifetime in which he had been able to see Sansa into old age. In all the lifetimes he had with her, she perished at the hands of his greatest enemy before that could happen.  
But tonight, on the day – nay, night – of her birth, he vowed that things would be different this time. 

He meant to steal her.

“I wish you wouldn’t call me ‘Your Grace’,” Jon said as he gazed up at the moon from his penthouse window in the heart of the city of Winterfell. My how it had changed over the span of centuries. The world had changed in so many ways, and in other ways it had stayed exactly the same. 

“You were a king once,” Melisandre told him.

“Once. A very, very long time ago.” He huffed out a laugh. “Lifetimes ago.”

“Just the same. You will always be king to me.”

Jon didn’t argue with her. On another night maybe, but not tonight. Not when Sansa had just been born. This was a glorious day despite the fact that he had eighteen years to wait before he could make his presence and his intentions clear to her. Until then, he had a new family all picked out and ready for her. Including a new location. He wasn’t going to take chances this time; he would not give Petyr Baelish the opportunity to take her away from him again. If the sodding bastard couldn’t see to it to stay dead and leave Sansa alone, then Jon had no choice in the matter. He was doing this for Sansa. For himself. For _them._

“Is the car ready?” Jon asked.

“By now it is. I sent word after I saw her birth.”

“Right then,” he said and started for the door. “Let’s go get her.”

Xxxxxxxx

Jon tensed when Melisandre started to tense. They had just passed through the entrance when Melisandre pressed forward beside him, her eyes going wide, and mouth falling open in disbelief. 

“What is it?” Jon asked as a spike of fear jolted through him. All he could think was that it had been easy up until now, almost too easy. All his careful planning to hide Sansa away from Baelish, the meticulous selection of her caregivers – everything had fallen into place in a way it never in any lifetime for Jon. He seemed rather besieged by bad luck, and it was something he hadn’t been able to cast off, despite the horrifically long time he’d been alive. 

“Kinvara. She’s here. She’s doing something to the hospital,” Melisandre murmured, squinting at the structure. 

Jon couldn’t seem to get the words out that were running through his head. He wasn’t sure they were actually sentences, what he was thinking. Instead, they were a muddled mess of curse words. Some in English. Some not. Mostly not. He commanded the driver to stop despite the fact that they were blocking any traffic going in. He leaped out of the car the way only a vampire could: quick and full of preternatural grace. 

He ran to the building thinking, Get Sansa. Get Sansa. Get Sansa. 

Except he hit a force field that sent him hurtling through the air. He landed on his back and sprang up again. He looked at Melisandre, who had just exited the car and shouted, “Do something!”

“I can’t, Your Grace,” she said sadly. Her long red hair fell like a curtain over her face as though she couldn’t bear for Jon to witness her ineptitude. 

“What do you mean you can’t?!” he roared. “What use are you if you can’t help me?!”

She looked at him, clearly hurt. “Her magic has grown stronger. This is a wall I cannot penetrate.”

Jon was about to rebuke her; he didn’t care how awful it would make him to berate her. How could he care when Kinvara meant Baelish was here. _That he’d gotten to Sansa first._

Petyr couldn’t have possibly known what Jon was planning…it wasn’t possible! 

Then he appeared. The man, or rather, the vampire in question. And he was holding a tiny baby in his arms. 

Sansa. He was holding Sansa. And he was smiling that slimy triumphant smile he always wore when he bested Jon. Kinvara stepped out from behind him, also smiling, and wiggled her fingers in Melisandre’s direction. 

Jon ran forward at full force, his fangs descending, his whole being meaning to attack. 

Only he hit the wall again and was propelled back. He watched then as Petyr and Kinvara vanished like the smoke of incense in the air. 

The roar of anguish Jon unleashed came from somewhere deep down inside him, somewhere he didn’t even know he existed. 

Sansa had been taken from him. God only knew what Petyr would do with her now.


	2. Chapter One

**Eighteen Years Later  
China**

Sansa stood before her father, matching the grim determination she saw in the set of his jaw, but not the humor she saw in his eyes. Sometimes, he looked as though he was laughing at a joke inside his head. A joke he never shared. But then, Father wasn’t great at sharing. 

When the amusement left and the black clouds rolled in, it was best to take cover and stay out of his path. Father liked things just so. He liked to be heeded. He liked his orders to be drawn out to the T. He expected respect, even if he rarely gave it. 

Sansa didn’t like to question him. She didn’t like to go against his wishes. Not because she didn’t think he was wrong about a few things, but because she feared him. She didn’t think he’d ever physically hurt her, though she would prefer that over the other kinds of torture he’d inflicted on her and Mother in the past. 

When she was young and didn’t know any better, she didn’t question Father, and Mother didn’t dare. But as she got older and Mother grew braver, she did. Never out loud though. Never. Father had eyes and ears everywhere, and they wouldn’t hesitate to tell on her and Mother. So, whatever communication she and Mother had that might challenge and question the actions and words of Father, it was written down. And then promptly burned. 

In all honesty, Mother questioned Father much more than Sansa ever did. And she challenged Sansa to question him as well. And Kinvara. Plus, as far as speaking through writing? Well, it was just easier for Mother what with that giant gash across her neck and all. 

“Are you ready, my sweet?” Father asked and held up a small blade. 

She nodded. 

“You know what you have to do,” he said. 

Yes. She knew. She had to deflect the blade without getting stabbed, and she couldn’t simply just run away either. Father had been training her for years how to fight. He’d hired instructors, several of them. Her favorite had been Maurice with his beautiful dark skin and chocolate eyes When Father had found out she’d had a little crush on him, he’d sunk his fangs into Maurice and left his body in her bed. 

Mother had nearly written a book after that. 

Sansa would have thought the stray kitten he’d killed right in front of her after she’d snuck it in the house would have been enough to drive the point home that forming attachments was a big no-no in their household. But she hadn’t learned that then, and she hadn’t even learned it with Maurice. Instead, she’d learned not to let Father know when she’d formed an attachment. 

_Love_ , Mother had written, _is the most important thing there is._

Right now, to Sansa, staying alive was the most important thing there is because Father meant business. They were heading to Winterfell in the UK tomorrow and she had to be ready. The past eighteen years had come to this. All her training. All her lessons. All the stories Father had told her about her all her past lives and how she’d kept meeting her end because of one man. One vampire. 

It was because of this vampire— Father’s archenemy – that they were heading to Winterfell. Or rather, returning there, as Father had said. From the time she’d been able to understand things at their most basic level, Sansa had known what she was meant to do. What her destiny was. 

Father threw the knife without warning – sometimes he counted down for her. But this was the big leagues now. This was crunch time. She had to be ready, and no one would be counting down for her when they were trying to kill her. 

She deflected the knife with a swing of her arm. The next one she deflected with her other arm. Then one leg. Another arm. Another leg. The last, unfortunately, embedded itself in her shoulder. Sansa didn’t cry out. Father hated that. Instead, she took it out and dropped it to the ground and got into position for his next trial. She paid no mind to the blood that trickled from her wound. Father would lap at it later no doubt, and close it up all nice and tidy for her. 

A part of her was quite pleased with herself when Father smiled broadly at her, clearly happy that she showed no pain and gave no sign of stopping. 

“Next,” Father said. “I have brought in Master Xiu.”

Sansa showed no reaction, but she knew what this meant. 

“You know what to do,” Father said. 

She nodded once, though inside she was in turmoil. She didn’t want to do this! 

Father looked at her gravely. “Do not let me down, Sansa.”

She nodded again. She would not. 

He plucked her Dadao off the wall and handed it to her, just as Master Xiu entered the room, thinking he was here to train her. 

Poor Master Xiu….

xxxxxxxxx

An hour later, Master Xiu lay dying on the floor of the training room. The mats to cover the hardwood floors were a good idea. Just thought of blood-stained hardwood floors made her want to wrinkle her nose in distaste. Like Father, she liked things neat and orderly. Everything had a place, and everything should be in its place. 

She watched Father lick his lips as he stared down at Master Xiu. She knew he would make a meal out of the man soon. Not because he wanted to stop his suffering from all the fatal wounds Sansa had inflicted on him in their battle, but because Father needed to feed. 

“You did good, my pet,” Father said and patted her on the arm. “You toyed with him. And then struck. I could smell his fear when he realized this was real and not training.” Father laughed softly. “Then it was truly a fight.”

Yes, it had been. Sansa had a gash on her thigh and her arm to prove it. 

“You’re ready now,” Father said as he turned to face Sansa. He gripped her hands despite the blood on them. His blue eyes lit up with delight, his small mouth curved into a smile. “When we get to Winterfell, what is it you will do for me? For you? For our little family?”

Sansa replied by rote: “Kill Jon Targaryen.”


	3. Chapter Two

Winterfell was bright, bustling with life, and charming. Sansa liked it immediately. It felt, actually, almost familiar to her, which was odd. When Father had told her about Winterfell, she had imagined a cold, bleak city with factories pumping out plumes of smoke, and severe gray buildings that felt imposing rather than welcoming. She imagined its people skittish and tired, melancholic even. 

It was nothing like that. It did have tall buildings, but they were beautiful and shiny and seemed to say, "Welcome!" rather than the "Get Out" she'd expected. Sometimes, she liked to stand in the window of her hotel and just gaze out at the city. 

There was a slight chill in the air as summer had given way to fall, and the trees were bursting with colors of red, orange, and yellow. The city had decorations everywhere in storefronts, and at the entrance of buildings celebrating the arrival of fall - pumpkins, bright red and orange Mums in big round pots, and even some haystacks. 

Sansa found herself drawn in by the city, to watching the people as they moved about – some quickly as though they had places to get to in a rush, and some strolled along the wide sidewalks as though they had all the time in the world. This feeling she had being on her own in this city that felt so familiar and comforting, left her feeling oddly unsettled. She had learned from an early age that when things went too smoothly, that meant the rug was about to be pulled out from under her. Father’s moods were mercurial; he could change on a dime and often did. Mother would say Father had raised her in an unstable environment that made her on guard and wary of others. She’d learned that from the OWN Network. 

She kept reminding herself that she was here on a mission, not to settle in with the natives. And if she didn’t complete her task…

_"You love your mother, don't you?" Father asked while he watched Sansa pack her belongings for the trip. She was scared, but knew better than to show it. She never did anything without Father close by. She wouldn't know what to do with herself without his constant presence. Kill Jon Targaryen, that was really all she knew to do. And she had a feeling Father had something else going on. Something that he was working on that, for once, did not include her. It was the only thing she could think of to explain why he wasn’t coming with her. Did he truly trust her that much?_

_"I do," Sansa said, and immediately felt her body tense. He wouldn't actually threaten Mother, would he? He seemed to care for her so..._

_"I'm glad," he said and fell silent._

_Sansa waited, mindful to keep her breathing slow and even, to keep her heart from racing. It didn't work._

_"Your heart races, why?" he asked._

_Dammit._

_"I suppose I am just nervous about the trip and being away from you and Mother."_

_Father stood and turned her to face him. He smiled and cupped her face in his hands. “You are a beautiful young woman now, Sansa. Did you know that?”_

_She shook her head. She didn’t know she was beautiful. She felt rather plain as she didn’t get dressed up like she saw other girls do._

_“Well, you are,” Father said. “That Targaryen bastard is going to be taken with you now just as he has been in every life you’ve encountered him.”_

_“You’re certain he will be expecting me?” Sansa asked._

_Father’s smile faltered. “Are you questioning my counsel?”_

_“No, Father, of course not. I just wish to know what to expect.”_

_“We’ve been over this, my darling. You will wait for him to come to you. And he will. He won’t be able to resist. He’ll wonder what’s become of you. He’ll wonder if he can control you again. Let him think he can, just until I can join you after I’ve seen to my business here. But do not engage in relations with him.”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_“Then you will end him,” he said with a wide smile, “and I will watch.”_

_“Yes, Father.”_

_“Good girl.” He pulled her into his arms and embraced her. In her ear, he whispered, “And if you give up your maidenhead to him and fail in your mission, I will kill Mother and make you watch.” She froze. He broke the embrace, patted her on the head, and walked off, humming._

Now, Sansa sat on a bench along a busy street with her hands dug into her jacket. She fingered the slips of paper inside, notes Mother had left her in the pockets of a couple pairs of black jeans. One note said: _You are a child of the Universe_. The other, riskier note said: _You are more than your duty._

Sansa couldn’t really make sense of the first one, and the other one…well, it made her think. And she supposed that was Mother’s aim. More than her duty? What did that mean? All she knew was her duty…

Sansa looked up at the building across the street and the name on it: Targaryen Associates. She wondered if Jon Targaryen was inside, watching her. Father managed to find ways to move about in the daylight despite the fact that any contact with the sun would singe his skin something fierce. She wondered if Jon Targaryen had ways of co-existing with humans in the daylight hours. 

Sounds of laughter startled Sansa out of her reverie and she looked over her shoulder to watch a group of men and women who looked to be about her age walk past. They were talking animatedly and laughing, wearing bright colors and tight clothing. Clothes Father would never approve for her. 

She studied their smiles in wonder. They seemed sincere. There didn’t seem to be any subterfuge, no lies or deceptions buried in their eyes. Their smiles, their obvious joy, Sansa realized, was _real._

She moved her mouth into a smile, and then dropped it. She hardly ever smiled, and it felt weird. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she had. But she wanted to now. Wanted to know what it felt like to smile without a care, smile for no reason. She tried it again, her mouth stretching over her teeth. Deciding she must look maniacal (like Father, she thought and immediately felt guilty for it) she dropped the smile, got up, and followed after the group, wanting to hear their chatter and their laughter, wanting to learn what made other people smile so easily and without being told to. 

xxxxxx

“Don’t go,” Jon whispered and placed his hand on the window from high atop Targaryen Associates. 

He’d been watching Sansa since she’d arrived in Winterfell the week before. It had been difficult to know she was near and not go to her. Instead, he observed her. He wasn’t so stupid to think that Petyr would kidnap her for the past eighteen years and not have a plan for her against him. No doubt Petyr was using her as bait, though Jon hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Petyr or Kinvara. That didn’t mean he wasn’t close by though. After centuries of dealing with Petyr’s bullshit, Jon had learned that Petyr was always close by in some capacity. In one life, he’d posed as a priest come to save Sansa from her lustful yearnings for Jon. In another, he’d been the close family friend who had convinced her father in that life to slit her throat for flirting with a man with the intent to bed him.

Jon’s hand balled up into a fist. So many ways Littlefinger had destroyed them. All because she had made her choice not to betray Jon and make a play for the Iron Throne with Petyr. . . 

“When will you make yourself known to her, Your Grace?” Melisandre asked from behind him. 

Jon started and blew out a breath, though there was little air he held in his lungs. It was more habit than anything else that he breathed. He looked over at the red witch and frowned. “I need to put a bell on you.”

The corner of her red lips twitched into a smile. She held her hands folded demurely before her. “What have you learned in watching her?”

“She’s sad,” Jon said. “She doesn’t smile. She wears black all the time. She looks like a ghost in her own life. She likes to watch people, and when she does she looks as though she’s trying to understand them.”

“A bit like Jane Goodall and the gorillas?”

Jon nodded. “Yes. Wherever she’s been, and whatever he’s done to her, this has been a very different life for her. When her father was that religious zealot, she still had life and a spark in her despite how much he tried to crush it. This Sansa…she fades too easily into the background and I do not think that’s by accident.”

“I can only imagine that having been with Petyr for all this time has not been easy for her.”

Jon pursed his lips together and moved away from the window. He could no longer see Sansa. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re certain you don’t sense Kinvara about?”

“Quite certain.”

“And I’ve seen hide nor hair of Baelish, which doesn’t mean much but I don’t even smell a trace of him on her,” Jon said. 

“Will you will be making yourself known soon?” 

Jon nodded. “Soon.”


	4. Chapter Three

Anything Father hated, Sansa was to hate as well. And Father hated Jon Targaryen, so she was meant to as well. It was the way of things. 

Except that she didn't hate _everything_ Father did, she just learned to pretend really well. She loved sweets, she enjoyed what little TV she was allowed to watch, and she was curious about the things beyond the walls of the homes they'd held over the years. 

Father was wary of people and their intentions, Sansa was intrigued by them. Probably because she never really got to have any friends that Father hadn't pre-approved. They were like arranged marriages, so Sansa never really got to choose for herself who she wanted to spend time with. She never really got to choose what she wanted to do either. She studied, she trained, she spent time with the pre-approved friends - most of whom she had no idea what to talk about with them. She rather felt as though they were spies, so even when they asked how she felt about something she gave the answers Father would have wanted to hear. Mother had taught her that. 

Father told her as she was growing up how Jon Targaryen had killed her in every life. How he'd ruined her and taken her away from him. He would draw her in, make her love him, and then take her away from Father. Father would say how it broke his heart. Shattered it into a million pieces. She didn't want that, did she? As a child. No, of course not. 

As she grew older though...her feelings on the matter began to change. 

When Mother would write out time and again after a lesson: What do YOU think? Sansa would have to take her time and think long and hard. She'd had her head filled with all the things she was supposed to think that she didn't know how to think on her own. But Mother was persistent and though some things were hard for Sansa to break-away from, some things she questioned. 

Like past lives. She got that Father was a vampire and had lived longer than the Christian God that had “taken over” as Father had put it. Jon Targaryen, too, was a vampire, and had been around as long as Father. But she didn't _remember_ her past lives, she had no recollection of Jon having killed her and ruined her and separating her from Father time and again so how was she supposed to hate him so much for those very things? 

Simply put, she didn’t. Oh, she did hate Jon Targaryen, but not for the reasons Father wanted her to, had _bade_ her to. 

She hated Jon Targaryen because he'd stolen _this_ life from her. No real friends, no life of her own...all she knew was how to be a weapon. Watching people, following them to learn how others not like her lived made her hatred of him grow. Would Father have been different if Jon Targaryen hadn't taken her away from him for so many of her lives? Would he be less… _controlling_? 

There, she'd thought it. 

He was controlling. He never let her do anything she wanted, only what he wanted. He was suffocating and prone to cruelty and she sometimes thought she might hate him, hate him, hate him, but no, it wasn't him it was Jon's fault. _His_ fault Father stole her from her birth parents. _His_ fault that Father was so desperate to keep her close. He loved his little girl, had always loved her, and he didn't want to change her, he just wanted to enjoy her in every lifetime because in every incarnation she was so precious to him... 

Jon may have stole other lives from her and that angered Father, but it was this life she knew of that he'd stolen and it angered _her._

What, she wondered, would life be like if she did kill Jon? Would Father ease up? Be kinder? Less controlling? What would he do with her then? What would _she_ do if given the choice to make her own life? 

It scared her, actually, to think about. Having all those choices. She could barely function now with what to eat for dinner. It was a bit contradictory to long for them and to fear them, but that's where she was at. 

Now, ducking into a store she'd seen other people her age or at least in her vicinity go into, Sansa looked around in awe at the collection of clothes. Pretty clothes. Clothes that the girls she'd been following were looking over, admiring. 

Sansa admired _them_. How they laughed with ease. Smiled. How they seemed so comfortable with one another. They sparkled. What would it be like to sparkle?

"Hello. Can I help you with anything?"

Sansa jerked her head to the side and found a sales clerk (she was wearing a nametag that said Margaery), looking curiously at her. Sansa realized she was just standing there in the middle of the shop staring at the people she'd followed in like some kind of puppy. She swallowed. "Oh, uh, I just wanted to look at what you had." 

The clerk looked her up and down and frowned slightly. “Was there something in particular you were looking for?”

Sansa shifted on her feet, feeling a bit – no, a lot – out of place. She was in her standard black, and her sweatshirt that day was a big large on her. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and she knew it was wind-blown by now. 

“Something with color,” she blurted out. “I…have a lot of black.”

Margaery smiled. “I can help you with that! Do you know what you’re looking to get? Pants? Jeans? A few blouses?”

Sansa bit her lip. “Um, maybe you could pick a few things out for me? I’m really…I’m terrible at this sort of thing.”

If possible, Margaery, a pretty girl with light brown hair that fell around her shoulders in waves, and pretty blue eyes, seemed to smile even brighter. She held out her hand. “My name is Margaery, and I will be happy to help you…?”

“Sansa,” Sansa said. “My name is Sansa.”

“Pretty name. Follow me, Sansa.”

Margaery led her to the back of the store to the dressing rooms and Sansa’s gaze strayed to the girls she’d been following. They were laughing and whispering to one another, and she wondered if they were laughing at her. Her face hot, she ducked her head and nearly knocked into Margaery. 

What followed was two hours of Margaery passing her clothes over the stall. Sansa lost track of how many articles of clothing she’d tried on, especially since Margaery talked to her the whole time, telling her about her boyfriend Robb and how amazingly hot he was. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Margaery asked through the door. 

“No, I’m um… well, I’m new in town.” _Sort of. Depends on who you ask._

“Oh! How are you liking Winterfell? Did you move because of your job?”

Sansa slipped on a shirt. “You could say that.”

“How long have you been here?” Margaery asked. 

“Only a couple weeks.”

“Have you made any friends? Are you very far from home?”

“No. And yes.”

“That settles it then. You’ll come out with me and Robb tonight. We’ll introduce you to some people.”

Sansa froze as she stared, unseeing, into the mirror. “You…you want to me to go out with you and your boyfriend?”

“Yes! You’re new in town, and that must be so lonely. You need to meet people. I will help.”

Sansa felt like crying at the same time she was slammed with the fear of what Father would say if he was to find out she went out with someone he hadn’t approved of. She still wasn’t sure what she’d tell him when it came to the new clothes. All she could think to say was that she’d needed something to lure Jon in with. Something he might be attracted to, though Father insisted she could wear a sack and he’d still seek her out. 

It was strange to know so much about someone, and yet nothing at all at the same time. Only stories. Stories she’d been told since she knew how to listen. 

“Sansa?” Margaery called through the door. “Are you okay? You don’t have to come. You can tell me to mind my own business and I’ll just—”

“No,” Sansa said quickly. “I want to go. I’ll go.”

“Excellent! So, are you almost done?”

Fighting back tears, Sansa nodded and drew the shirt she’d just tried on over her head and handed it to Margaery over the door. “I’ll take that one too,” she said softly. 

Four hundred dollars later (all on a credit card Father had given her), Sansa emerged from the store with paper bags that weighed down her arms, the phone number of her new friend, and the address she was to meet her and her boyfriend at later. She felt a smile start to come and she let it. 

“My my, you’ve done some shopping I see.”

Sansa looked over and found Kinvara coming toward her. Her heart started to thud, she felt a cold sweat break out. Oh, God. Father was here! Kinvara meant Father was here! She wasn’t ready yet, she’d just told him she wasn’t ready yet just the other night. Jon hadn’t shown himself yet to her, why was Father here now? Was Mother there? Or had he hurt her? Had he…tears stung her eyes. _God, please, no, not Mother._

But it wasn’t Kinvara. It was someone that looked a bit like her though. A woman with long, deep red hair, piercing blue eyes, and high cheekbones. She wore black pants that looked as though they’d been painted on, a red top that clung to her, showcasing her breasts, and a chunky black necklace that appeared to be more like a choker. She was gorgeous. And she was looking at Sansa as though she knew her. 

Sansa shifted on her feet and looked down at the bags on her arms. “Yes,” she said. “I did.”

The woman smiled. “Did you need a new wardrobe?”

“Something like that,” Sansa mumbled and then started to walk away quickly. “Excuse me.”

Sansa felt the woman’s eyes on her as she walked away, but when she looked over her shoulder, the woman was gone. 

xxxxxxxxx

“You need to make yourself available to him,” Father insisted over the phone. “It’s not like him to not have shown himself to you by now. Are you certain you’re making yourself available at night? Going out?”

“Perhaps not as much as I should,” Sansa told him over the phone as she studied the outfit she had laid out for that night. Tight black pants – low-rise pants, her first pair – and a shimmery silver halter top that Margaery had said she’d looked “killer” in. And, she had the shoes to match. She’d negotiated with Margaery and had gone with black shoes that had a bit of a heel, but not too much. For one, she never wore heels and for another, if she needed to run because a certain vampire and she got into it, well, she didn’t relish falling flat on her face. 

“Sansa, Sansa, Sansa…” He tsked and then sighed. “Do you want to see Mother again?”

Sansa’s stomach clenched. “I do, Father. And I promise I will make myself more available. I’m going to go out tonight. I’ll go out all night if I have to.”

“That’s better. I want a full report when you make contact.”

“I promise to call immediately after.”

“Good girl.”

Sansa was about to ask if he could tell Mother she loved her when she heard the click on the other end. He’d hung up. 

Of course. It was all about her duty. 

After showering, and attempting to apply the makeup she’d purchased after the clothes that day – and she had to watch a couple youtube videos to ensure she was doing it right – Sansa ran a brush through her long hair, letting it air-dry straight. 

She stared at herself in the full-length mirror and felt…odd. She felt like she stuck out like a sore thumb. She feared everyone would laugh at her. This was not her. This was not the girl Father had raised. She looked…frivolous. 

She was tempted to change, but forced herself instead to walk to the hotel door and let herself out of it. She had her money and her ID tucked into her bra. Margaery said a purse would be cumbersome, and that she always stuffed her ID and her money in her bra. 

She was to meet Margaery and her boyfriend at a bar called The Wall. Margaery had given her directions. 

It would be her first bar. Her first drink. Her first night out. She felt a bit overwhelmed. She almost wanted to run back to her room and hide. 

But she wouldn’t. She thought of Mother and that strengthened her resolve. She did have a job to do after all. 

xxxxxxxx

Robb’s full name was Robb Wolf and Sansa felt an instant kinship to him. It startled her, actually, how she felt as though she knew him. They even looked a bit alike, him with the same red hair as her, same blue eyes. He was friendly, easy-going, and handsome. Not to mention chivalrous. He bought her and Margaery their first drinks. 

Sitting around a pub table with pub chairs, Sansa pulled her gaze away from studying Robb, and looked around the bar. It was packed, and it was loud. House music thrummed through the speakers, and Sansa felt as though the beat went straight through her heart. There was a dance floor tucked in the back of the room, the bar itself was in the middle, and there were pool tables on the other side. 

Some guy came up to their table with messy blond hair and dull blue eyes and grinned at her. Not knowing what else to do, Sansa stuck the straw of her Pina Colada in her mouth and took a long sip. Margaery said it would taste just like coconuts, and it did. She’d already downed half of it because of how smooth it went down. 

“You gonna introduce me, Wolf?” the guy asked Robb. 

Robb smirked. “Theon, this is Sansa, Margaery’s new friend. Play nice.”

“I always play nice,” Theon said with a grin and held out his hand to Sansa. “Hello, Sansa. I’m Theon.”

Sansa took his hand gingerly. “Hello, Theon.” Sip, sip, sip. 

Margaery tugged on her arm and laughed. “Slow down! You trying to get drunk?”

Sansa hadn’t even considered that part. She looked down at her drink. It was almost gone. She shrugged and looked at Margaery sheepishly. 

“Do you want another, Sansa?” Robb asked. 

She did, but she was afraid to say she did. She looked at Margaery for help. 

Margaery laughed. “It’s okay, you can have another. I’m just teasing you, Sansa.”

Teasing. Sansa had never been teased. She nodded at Robb and he grinned at her. She grinned back. 

“So, come here often?” Theon asked, leaning against the table. 

Sansa jumped down from the pub chair, found herself a bit wobbly, and excused herself to help Robb get more drinks. She tugged lightly on his arm to let him know she had joined him, and he smiled at her and allowed her to fall into step beside him. 

“Listen,” he said as they made their way up to the bar. “Theon is one of my best friends, but don’t feel like you have to humor him. He can come off like a bit of a dick. If he tries to get you to do something you don’t want to do, tell him no, all right?”

Sansa nodded. 

Robb leaned over the bar and started to give the bartender their order. Sansa turned, facing the sea of people. She scanned the area, taking in the faces, looking for Jon. She only had pictures to go on, so it was possible she might miss him at first. 

“Ready?” Robb asked, nudging her with his elbow. 

She nodded and started to follow him back to the table when a crowd of people cut in front of her, causing Sansa to lag behind. She waited for them all to pass and when they did she found Jon Targaryen standing there, facing her.


	5. Chapter Four

Sansa couldn't believe it. There he was, standing right there in front of her. Her arch enemy. The vampire she was told to hate, and the vampire she _learned_ to hate. 

Nothing could have prepared her for this moment, of actually seeing him right in front of her. He was pretty, prettier than his pictures. 

She remembered saying just that when Father had shown her a picture of him, and he'd slapped her on the mouth. He'd drawn blood when her not yet grown in tooth had scraped against the inside of her lip. 

Father had gotten in her face while she'd fought back tears. "Do you remember the myths of the Christian Devil?"

Sansa had nodded, though at the moment her seven-year-old brain was scrambling to remember exactly what she was supposed to remember. 

"What did I tell you about him? About him being _pretty_?"

Now she remembered. "That--that he had to fool you. Make you like him. And if you thought he looked nice, then you would like him all the more."

Father had nodded, standing tall, towering over her. "Well done. Remember that. Jon Targaryen might look pretty, but it hides his black soul. His black heart. He will destroy you. Me. _Us_. Remember that."

She had. She remembered it now even as she thought he was much prettier in person than in his picture. Black curly hair that fell to his shoulders, but the sides pulled back into a short ponytail. His eyes were dark, though it was also dark in the bar so she couldn't make out the shade. He had full lips, lips women would kill for, bushy brows, and a bit of a baby face. He had a goatee too, well trimmed. He wasn't very tall, not as tall as her imagination had made him. Wasn't evil supposed to be tall? Father was tall. 

"Hello, Sansa," he said. 

His voice was like honey. Velvet. It was deep and alluring and her stomach flipped over. 

She actually thought she might be sick. 

He wore - 

Furs?

She blinked rapidly. No, that's not right. He wasn't wearing furs. He was wearing dark jeans, the weathered looking kind you paid a lot of money for. Sansa knew that well; she'd bought a pair today. His button-down shirt was dark, navy perhaps, and he wore black boots. 

Her eyes darted to the waiter she could see coming out of the corner of her eye. There were long-necked beer bottles on the tray he was holding and she thought she could grab one, smack the bottom against a counter or a table, and use the top to slit Jon Targaryen's throat. At least until she could lob his head off completely before he healed. She hadn't brought a weapon. _Why hadn't she brought a weapon?_ She could end this, right here and now. No games. No luring him in. Just end it. She could deal with fallout of not having Father watch her actually do it later. It was more important she kill him than having Father around to watch it, right?

"What has he done to you?" Jon asked, his voice a rasp. 

Sansa flinched. She thought of her lessons, the boy she liked whom Father killed, Master Xiu bleeding out at her feet, Mother... She narrowed her eyes at him, wanting him to feel the burn of her glare. 

He sighed and shook his head, slight movements with a weariness about them that told Sansa he had expected this. Expected it and hated it. "What has he told you?" he asked. And then he laughed humorlessly. Bitterly. "Would you even tell me?"

"You've had me killed in every lifetime," she said, and his eyes widened. Either at what she said or the fact that she'd spoken at all, Sansa wasn't sure. "You separated me from my Father. You hurt him. You hurt me." 

She heard the venom in her voice and breathed in through her nose in an attempt to calm down. This wasn't _luring him in_ and _gaining his trust_. This was letting him know he was her enemy. But he already knew that she was, how could he not? He wouldn't have asked what Father had told her if he didn't know already that Father must have told her all about him and what he’d done. 

_Couldn't one side be lying? Couldn't they both be lying in some way?_

There are two sides to every story, Mother had written once. She'd burned the paper quickly after in fear. 

Father wasn't a liar though. He abhorred liars. 

"What is it he wants you to do then?" he asked. "Kill me?"

She didn't answer. Jon Targaryen wasn't stupid. She had been led to believe he'd be stupid. 

He stepped closer to her. "Sansa, does he want you to end me? Or are you the bait and he'll do it himself? I've had the past eighteen years to imagine what he's had in store for us. I knew he had something planned when he took you."

"In store for _us_?" she said and cocked her head to the side. 

"I'm not what you think; I'm not the enemy. Has he harmed you?"

What a loaded question. 

"Sansa, everything okay?"

It was Robb and Margaery, coming up to check on her. They looked at Jon warily and then at Sansa. She forced a smile. "I'm fine," she said. "Thank you. I was just saying goodbye."

"So then you'll meet me tomorrow at my office?" Jon said. "At one? I'll be expecting you."

Sansa stared at him. Meet him? Tomorrow? Father will be thrilled. _I could take him out then_. She nodded once and Jon looked as though there was more he wanted to say. He didn't though. Instead he looked at Robb, sadness passing over his features, and then he turned and left just as quickly as he'd appeared. 

"Wow," Margaery breathed. "He was some kind of hot."

"Hey," Robb said, frowning at her. 

Margaery clung to his side and kissed his cheek. "Not as hot as you," she cooed. 

"Did you know him, Sansa?" Robb asked. "The conversation looked intense. I wasn't sure whether or not to interfere."

Sansa's smile was small and thankful. "I know him enough. We've...met a few times."

"Do you even like him?" Margaery asked. "You didn't look like you did, but then you agreed to meet him."

"Do I like him? No, but...he may have a job for me..." _He is my job_. "And I'm willing to hear him out." _I'm going to punch him in his pretty face._

"Well, good luck then I guess," Margaery said, sounding a bit uncertain. 

_He's gonna need it_. "Thanks, I'll be fine."

xxxxxxx

Sansa told Father she made contact. That Jon made himself known, but they hadn't yet talked. 

Father had sounded positively gleeful when he crowed into the phone, "Don't worry! He will!”

“How is Mother?” Sansa risked asking. 

“She’s well. I am proud of you, Sansa. I knew if you just applied yourself…”

Applied herself? She couldn’t control Jon Targaryen. Could not make him present himself to her. She couldn’t control everything, why did he make her feel as though anything good or bad that happened was her fault?

“Of course,” she said. It was easier to agree even if it did make her stomach churn now to do so. 

After the call, Sansa got ready. She wore the clothes she’d packed, and not the new ones. She slipped a dagger in the sleeve of her sweatshirt and in her left boot, and a stake in the back of her jeans.

That, she decided, should be enough to kill him where he stood. 

xxxxxx

A man dressed in a black suit, the only color to him being his flaming red hair, led Sansa to Jon when she arrived at Targaryen Associates. He didn’t speak, which suited her just fine. She wasn’t in the mood to talk. She just wanted this over with. 

She was led to an elevator, and up to the twelfth floor they went. Just outside the elevator was where, presumably, a receptionist would sit. Yet no one sat there. She was then led down a white carpeted hall with offices on each side. Everything was white and chrome and wood. And still, no sign of anyone. 

She guessed the room with the door open and away from all the other offices was Jon’s even before the guard led her inside. More chrome. More white. More wood. There was a large window that overlooked Winterfell at the back, and Jon stood with his back to it when she came in. He too, wore a black suit. He was still pretty, prettier even now that she could see him in the light. 

She added his prettiness to the list of reasons she hated him. Not that she needed to have a long list. The ones she did have packed quite enough of a punch.

“Do you work alone?” she asked. “Where’s your staff?”

“I sent them all home early.”

“Why?”

“A precautionary measure,” he said on a sigh. “You looked as though you wanted to do me serious harm last night, and I expect that hasn’t changed.”

“I want to kill you,” she said bluntly. 

“Because that’s what he wants?”

“You mean Father?”

“He’s not your father, Sansa. He never was,” Jon said with a shake of his head. “He would have preferred lover, though not because he actually wanted you for you, but rather because you reminded him of your mother, Catelyn.”

“He said you might say something like that.”

“He thought of everything, didn’t he?” he said with a humorless laugh. 

Sansa lifted her chin. “I’ve been preparing for this.”

“For our meeting for the very first time?”

“Yes.”

“Is telling me you want to kill me part of the plan? Or did you go off script?”

She didn’t answer him. Instead, she looked about the room, looking for what might suffice as a weapon in case she needed more. When she looked back at Jon, she found him standing there in what appeared to be medieval clothing. A blue tunic and vest and brown trousers. His hair pulled back again, not loose as it was when she came in. At his side was a sword. 

Startled, she looked away and when she looked back, he was dressed normally again. 

What was that? Last night it was furs. Today it was medieval garb complete with a sword. Were Father’s stories coming to the forefront now that she was actually Jon’s presence?

“Sansa? Are you are all right?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped.

“Did he tell you about your Mother? About Catelyn?”

“He didn’t have to tell me. I’ve known her my whole life.”

He blinked. He had long lashes. And gray eyes. “Catelyn is with you?”

She nodded. “She goes by Lady Stoneheart mainly, but Father calls her Cat when he’s in a good mood.” 

“Lady Stoneheart is with you?!”

His shout startled her. “Yes, of course. She’s my mother.”

“She’s not your mother, Sansa. She’s what we could a zombie these days. What did he do? Did he resurrect her?”

“Mother has always been with me,” she said. 

“No, she hasn’t. He did it, didn’t he? Concocted the family he always wanted with his precious Cat.” Jon shook his head slowly, his lip curling in disgust. “That bloody miserable sod.”

“Right then. Maybe you could explain to me what the problem is?” she demanded irritably. 

“Your mother died at the Red Wedding with your brother. Her throat was slit. She bled out, and was resurrected into Lady Stoneheart. She died before the battle with the White Walkers. He must have….he brought her back.”

“He said she’d lived,” Sansa said softly. “That she didn’t need to become like him. She had her own power.”

“He lied. And she has never been with him. Not in any life you’ve had.”

“How do I know you’re not the one who’s lying?” she retorted. 

“I’ve no reason to lie to you. I’ve loved you for centuries, Sansa. And I’ll love you for centuries more, no matter what he’s done to you. To me. To us.”

“Stop saying us,” she said. “There is no us.”

“There will always be an us. As long as I’m standing here, there will always be an us.”

“Yeah, about that…” She let her blade drop into her hand and she threw it at him, aiming right for his throat. She felt a mixture of fear and hope, knowing that her aim was true and that she’d get him. 

However…

He caught it before it made contact, his hand a whirl of white. It was as though someone had pushed fast forward on the DVR. 

“Well. You’ll be a challenge, won’t you?” she said. Oddly enough, she felt a rush of adrenaline at the prospect of fighting him. Her anger had been roused in seeing him last night, and she was feeling a bit…peckish. 

“I don’t want to fight you, Sansa,” he said. “I want to help you. I want to protect you from him.”

“Protect me? You want to protect me from _him_?” She huffed out a laugh and thought of Mother. “No one can protect anyone.”

He got the strangest look on his face when she said that. His whole face softened into something tender. Reverent. No one had ever looked at her like that before. It made her heart race and her skin feel tight. “What is it?” she demanded angrily. 

“You said that to me before,” he said quietly. “Before a battle. You didn’t trust me then to protect you, but I did. I kept my promise to you; I kept you safe.”

“You’ve been around for centuries, Jon Targaryen,” she said, drawing out his last, rolling it out on her tongue. “I’m sure you’ve heard turns of phrases a billion times before. How can it affect you still?”

“Perhaps because I’m a bit sentimental. But then I always have been when it comes to you.”

She sneered at him. “Sentiment.” She blew breath out of her mouth halfway between a huff and a snort. “You would admit you’re sentimental? Do you realize I could use it against you? It’s a weakness, that is.”

“I expect you’ve learned all sorts of ways to take me down,” he said. 

“Would you like me to show them to you?” she asked with a smirk. 

“No,” he said softly. “Perhaps not today.”

Sansa took a step forward and then her world went black and she knew nothing.


	6. Chapter Five

Sansa moaned as she started to awaken. Her head hurt, as though she was waking up with a head cold. She shifted on her bed and her limbs felt heavy. She must be coming down with something. She'd have to take something. 

But then her memories of what happened before she...was… knocked out (?) came tumbling back and she realized that she was most definitely not in her bed at the hotel or at home. 

She shot up and looked down. Okay, she was still dressed, just no shoes. They were near the door. She looked around. White room, nothing on the walls. She was in a full-sized bed with white sheets. Hardwood floors. A nightstand with an alarm clock and a lamp. A bureau across from the bed against the wall. The nightstand and bureau were oak. A small window, like a basement window up near the corner of the room. There was a door near the bed. Bathroom, she guessed. 

"What the hell, Targaryen!" she shouted as she climbed out of the bed. She felt woozy and wondered if Jon had actually knocked her out. She didn't remember being hit. She moved her fingers about her head, tangling it. No bumps. She went to the door, already knowing it would be locked and that trying to open it would be futile. She tried anyway. Locked. She banged on the door. "I hate you!" she screamed, causing her head to throb even harder. "I'm going to kill you!!"

She stumbled back to the bed, her head feeling as though it was going to explode. She sprawled across it, curling herself into a ball. That had taken everything out of her. 

The door opened then and she looked through the slits of her eyes at Jon and...and that red-headed woman she'd mistaken for Kinvara. 

"How much magic did you use on her for Christ's sake?" Jon growled. 

"She was trying to kill you, Your Grace," the woman in red said. "Besides, you asked for my help."

" _Your Grace_?" Sansa said and laughed. It sounded maniacal to her own ears. She zeroed in on the red woman. “You’re a Red Witch, just like Kinvara. You betrayed your fellow priestesses of the Lord of Light when you joined forces with Targaryen.”

"I am Melisandre.”

“I know…now anyway,” Sansa muttered. 

“We were of the same order, Kinvara and I,” Melisandre said, lifting her chin. "But then she went evil."

"Let's not forget some of the things you've done," Jon muttered as he came over to Sansa. He sat down before her and attempted to touch her. Sansa flinched away and glared at him. 

“Kinvara has struck me down a time or two,” Sansa moaned. “Never like this though.”

“She only meant to knock you out so you wouldn’t fight me,” Jon said gently. “I’m sorry you’re hurting.” He looked pointedly at Melisandre. “It won’t happen again.”

Melisandre just shrugged, looking completely unconcerned. 

“Just kill me,” Sansa moaned. “Just put me out of my misery. What’s the point now? He’s going to kill her now anyway.”

Jon frowned down at her. “What?”

“Forget it,” she muttered, covering her face with her hand. “You wouldn’t understand. Not like you’d care either. You’re only interested in what you want, not what I want.”

“That’s not true,” Jon said softly. 

“Because you fancy yourself in love with me?”

“I don’t fancy myself in love with you. I am in love with you.”

“You don’t even know me!” she shouted, lifting her head up from the bed a bit. That made it throb even more, her entire body actually was throbbing now. She groaned. “I’m going to kill you so hard…”

Jon gazed down at her, studying her in the most infuriating manner. She could tell he was thinking something, and she wished he’d just get on with it, whatever it was he wanted to say or do. 

“Who you are at the core never changes, Sansa,” he finally said. She hated how calm he sounded when she felt like such shit. She wanted to ruffle him. Scare him. She wanted to torture him. “And in every life, a new facet of your personality is revealed, or at least brought to the forefront. You’ve never ceased to stop fascinating me.”

“Maybe you need to get out more.”

He chuckled at that, and she scowled at him. 

“In between your lives I sleep, mostly,” he said. 

Sansa had heard of this from Father. That vampires could choose to sleep for a very long time, and set a time in their head when they’d awaken, or have someone wake them. “For how long?” she murmured. 

“The longest was a hundred years. I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

“You slept for a hundred years waiting for me to return?”

He nodded, a bit of a smile on his face. “You came back wanting to be a pilot and travel the world.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what happened to her…or rather what he did to her, but she knew he wouldn’t tell the truth anyway, so what did it matter. This is what he did. He toyed with her in each life, made her think he cared about her, all the while planning her demise. 

She heard Father’s voice in her head: _Lure him in. Make him trust you._

“There were a few times you died young. Before I could get to you. Before he could too.”

“How young?” she asked. 

“Once, you were a stillbirth. Another time, you didn’t even make it out of the womb. And then there was the time you died from a fever at two.”

He looked so desperately melancholy by it that she almost felt sorry for him.

“I don’t remember any of my lives,” she said, her eyes shutting. “How can you stand it if I never remember you?”

“You had visions of us a few times. Dreams, mostly.”

“Did you ever tell me about our past lives together?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed. “What did _he_ tell you?”

“Nothing about that part, really.” And that was actually the truth. Father didn’t seem to be aware of whether or not Jon had shared what he knew of Sansa and her previous lives with her. Father had been more concerned about what Jon did to her rather than anything else. 

“It all depended on you,” he said softly and reached out his hand, making as though he was going to touch her hair. She flinched back and he sighed and dropped his hand to the bed. “On what you could handle.”

“Are you saying I was weak in some lives?” she asked with a glare. Father despised weakness. 

“No, not weak, just that it might have been too much to handle for some lives. In one life your birth father was abusive. You already had a lot to deal with then.”

The mind did boggle, hearing about these lives she led – or didn’t lead as the case may be. It felt like too much now and she’d already heard about them all as she was growing up. Father wanted to make sure to lay out exactly how evil and manipulative Jon Targaryen was. It was just that she didn’t feel connected to any of those lives so to hear Jon talk about them so nonchalantly, even reverently, it was just too much. 

She groaned as her head began to throb harder. 

“Can you at least get something for her to take?” she heard Jon growl to Melisandre. “She’s in pain.”

“Aspirin won’t help her,” Melisandre said. “I could do a spell—”

“No!” both Jon and Sansa shouted, and then looked at each other. Jon smiled somewhat softly, and then became somber as he said, “I’m sorry, Sansa. If I could take it away I would. It pains me to see you hurting.”

She snorted at that. “You’re not in pain yet, but you will be.” And then she slipped back into darkness. 

Jon watched her, brows knit together, his chest feeling constricted. He felt as though might weep. She hated him, and that was not something in his experience with her. Not even when they were kids in Winterfell did he ever feel Sansa hate him like this. Not in pain, she said? He was in pain. Having the love of your life – and un-life – hate you was much worse than not knowing who you were in each life. 

“Perhaps you should cut your losses this time around, Your Grace,” Melisandre said. 

Jon darted a glare at her. “Saying such things makes me think you’re against me.”

“Against you? I have been with you since the beginning. I was there when you were changed. I have been there in every one of Sansa’s incarnations to wake you, tell you when she was conceived, and when she was born…how can you say such a thing to me?”

“I don’t give up on Sansa. I never have before and I won’t start now. She’s human now, but who knows if he has plans to change her. I won’t have her hating me for an eternity.”

“May I speak frankly?”

Jon arched a brow. “You haven’t thus far?”

Melisandre ignored his comment and continued on. “She is a weakness for you, Your Highness. She could get you killed. She could do the killing!”

“Anyone with eyes can see she’s my weakness,” Jon muttered and dared to touch her now. He slid his fingers in her hair, and felt his chest constrict again, but for a very different reason this time. He loved her so much, he always had…

“She’s dangerous,” Melisandre said. 

“You said when you met her outside that shop that she was lost,” he murmured as he ran a shaking hand along the side of her face. Her skin was so soft. He remembered doing this very thing in Winterfell after they’d been married. Just watching her sleep, unable to stop touching her in some way, and trying to wrap his mind around the fact that she was his. 

“She is lost,” Melisandre said. “She can be more than one thing at a time. Lost _and_ dangerous.”

“Perhaps it’s her being lost that makes her so dangerous,” Jon said softly. “She’s in there, Melisandre. I can feel it. Her soul, her heart, it’s crying out for me.”

“Is it truly what you feel, Your Grace, or what you want to feel?”

He looked at her sharply. “I know my Sansa. I know her better than anyone.”

“You don’t know this one,” Melisandre said in that tone one used when they were breaking bad news to someone. “This is an incarnation unlike any others. I fear for your safety.”

Jon’s mouth turned up at the corner as he ran the tips of his fingers along Sansa’s lower lip. He looked up at Melisandre briefly before returning his adoring gaze back to Sansa. “Do not fear for me. After all I’ve survived? Don’t forget when Baelish tried to set me on fire.”

“I could never forget that, Your Grace,” Melisandre said tightly. “I feared for you then, and I fear for you now. I fear for you always.”

“Don’t. It’ll take some time, but I’ll reach her. I’ll find a way.”

Melisandre sighed heavily. “She has been raised as a weapon, Your Grace. How do you dismantle years of that sort of brainwashing and conditioning? You’ve no idea the things she’s been subjected to.”

“Exactly,” Jon said. “That’s why I don’t give up on her. With time and patience and love, I will get my Sansa back.”

“For your sake I hope you’re right, but I have my doubts,” Melisandre said, sounding quite put out with him. She swept from the room in a rustle of red skirts, and Jon sighed as he lay down facing Sansa. 

He’d become a vampire for a reason, and the reason was lying in the bed next to him. He hadn’t given up before, and he wasn’t going to give up now. This time, he would have Sansa and defeat Baelish once and for all.


	7. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I made a playlist for this fic that definitely feels Sansa-centric. Here is the link:
> 
> [Unable are the Loved to Die](http://8tracks.com/janinam8/unable-are-the-loved-to-die?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button) from [JaninaM8](http://8tracks.com/janinam8?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button) on [8tracks Radio](http://8tracks.com?utm_medium=referral&utm_content=mix-page&utm_campaign=embed_button).

_Sansa’s heart was in her throat when the gates to Castle Black opened. They’d arrived, she and Podrick and Brienne, they had finally made it to Jon._

_Brienne led the way in, Sansa behind her, and Podrick behind Sansa. Sansa scanned the crowd of men forming to gawk at them, and she felt anxiety bubble up within her. Was Jon here? He had to be. She hadn’t heard he’d left, but what if he had? She didn’t know why he would have, but it would be just her luck if he did now with her here…_

_Gods, she thought, as she looked out at the sea of faces. There were so many men! Had she seen Jon already and just not realized it? It had been so long since she'd last seen him. She imagined he'd changed just as she had in the time apart. Would he even remember her? Would he be disappointed that it was her not Bran or Arya or Rickon?_

_Brienne stopped and dismounted, and Sansa and Podrick followed suit. Sansa scanned the crowd again, the men staring at them as if they were an oddity. She supposed they were. She and Brienne were women after all, and women did not visit Castle Black._

_Sansa turned in a slow circle, hoping to catch sight of the face she’d come to see. She was shaking now. Hunger, maybe? Nervousness? Both? Definitely both. And fear. As safe as she felt with Brienne, she still worried that Ramsay wasn’t very far behind with his hounds hungry for her flesh. If she came this close to being reunited with part of her family and failed..._

_And then she saw him. Standing on a rampart, looking down at her as though she was an apparition. Jon. Her bastard brother. No, no. Just her brother. He was her brother. He was safety. He was family._

_He was **everything.**_

_She watched him descend the stairs, looking at her as though she was everything too. The look in his eyes… he watched her so reverently, so intently, that Sansa wanted to just fall into his arms and sob with relief and the joy of being reunited with her family once again. She hadn’t realized how long she’d spent being afraid until this moment, until she felt the fear she'd held onto begin to eek out of her._

_Jon stopped, stared at her. He was dressed like their father, not in black like the rest of the men around them, and Sansa didn’t know what that meant. His hair was pulled back away from his face in a style he never used to wear it in. He had scars on his face, scars that had never been there before. Nothing was as they were before. Not even her. He looked older, stronger, and wiser somehow._

_Sansa rushed forward towards him, needing to feel him now, needing to know that he was real, that she was here, that Jon was here and she was with him –_

_Gods, he was real. He was real and he was holding her so tightly, lifting her up as though he was as relieved and as happy to see her as she was to see him. She inhaled his clean scent and nuzzled her face against his, needing to feel more of him._

_It was as though a piece of her soul had returned, a piece she had lost so long ago she hadn’t even feel its loss any longer. Now it was back and she felt as though she could fly._

_Oh, Jon…_

Sansa’s eyes snapped open and she blinked into the dim light of the room. She swore she could feel Jon’s arms holding her up still. She could smell the crisp scent of snow, feel the sharpness of the cold on her face, and feel the weight of the cloak she wore.

Except that had been a dream and she was still in that room Targaryen had put her in. Her head no longer ached, and so she slowly sat up as though any sudden movements would trigger the mother of all magickal migraines again. 

She looked over at the alarm clock and she stared at it in shock for several seconds. Had she really slept for almost twelve hours? Was it really morning? She reached out and turned on the lamp on beside her on the nightstand and crawled out of bed. She felt a bit wobbly on her feet, not to mention now that she was starting to wake up more – bloody starving.

After relieving herself, washing her hands, and brushing her teeth with the toothbrush and toothpaste in the medicine cabinet, Sansa rooted around in the bathroom cabinet for a weapon.

Nothing.

She heard the sound of a door and rushed out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom. A woman stood there, hanging up a garment bag on the door. She looked over at Sansa and her eyes went wide. “I am sorry, Miss. I didn’t meant to disturb you,” she said in a bit of a Cockney accent.

“You didn’t disturb me,” Sansa murmured. “I was just in the bathroom…” And then she marched toward the woman and hit her on the head in a manner she knew would knock her right out. And it did. She crumpled to the floor, and with a satisfied grin, Sansa slipped out the door.

She looked both ways down a narrow hallway with stark white walls and a slick tiled floor. It reminded her of a hospital. There was a door at each end. She then looked up. No air vent to crawl into. Well, she’d have to try her chances with the doors. She marched down to one and was about to put her hand on it when she heard yet another door. She knew without looking that it was the one at the other end of the hall.

She also knew without looking that it was Jon.

She turned slowly and just looked at him.

They stared at one another for a long while, Sansa slowing her breathing and her heart rate. Father had taught her to do that so that your enemy didn't know you were about to attack. Namely vampire enemies, of course. Vampires could hear such things such as your heart beating and your pulse racing. Jon probably figured she would attack anyway, but he would probably also be thrown off by the slowing of her heart and breathing. 

She shook her head and rolled her eyes and made to march back into her room, cell, whatever the hell it was supposed to be, and then when she was close enough she dropped down into a crouch and did a sweep of his legs. 

He fell on his back hard and Sansa lunged on top of him wondering if she could snap his head off with her bare hands. Before she could do anything though, he had her on her back and her wrists pinned to the floor. She tried to kick him in the dick, but he had her pinned with his own legs. "Get off of me!" she yelled at him. 

"Sansa, I don't want to hurt you!" he yelled back. 

"Then don't!"

"Stop fighting me!"

"Then get _off_ me!"

"I'm not going to get off you until you stop moving," he said, his voice a rumble. She could feel it against her chest. 

The door opened again and there was Melisandre, frowning down at them. Sansa rolled her eyes. 

"I don't want her to use magick on you again, but I will if I have to," Jon said. He sounded as though he didn't relish the idea. She didn't relish it either. Another bout with Melisandre's magick and she'd be laid up again. 

She relaxed her body, letting it fall limp underneath him. She glared up at him as he climbed off of her. He then held out his hand. She didn't take it. She got up on her own and gestured to the hallway. "What is this place? Where am I? What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm not going to do anything to you, Sansa, save for keep you safe," he said calmly. She hated how unruffled he sounded, like she hadn't just swept his legs out from under him and tackled him to the floor. Granted, he'd ended up having the upper hand, but still. He looked at her. "What did you to Mary?"

"The maid? I knocked her out."

He sighed as though he held the weight of the world on his shoulders. Crivens, he was a contradiction. Knocking the maid out was a no-no but knocking him on his bum wasn't. 

"Sansa, we don't assault the help," he said. 

"She was in between me and possible freedom."

"From now on then, I'll be the one to bring you down what you need."

Sansa started to laugh. "You think that's going to stop me?"

"No," Melisandre said gravely. "But I will."

“You can’t hide behind her skirts forever, Targaryen,” Sansa said, ignoring Melisandre. 

He had the audacity to look amused by that. “Is that what I’m doing?”

She clenched her jaw. “Yes,” she hissed. 

“I’ve no desire to fight you, Sansa,” he said gently. “As I said, I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You should know better than anyone how strong a vampire is,” Melisandre said. 

Sansa did know. The few times Father had hit her, it had hurt like a hell. And that was even with him holding back. When she looked back at Jon, she found his jaw clenched now, and his eyes blazing. 

She realized he was watching her absently rub the side of her face. Once, Father had hit her there during a lesson and nearly broke her jaw. She dropped her hand. 

“He did hurt you, didn’t he?” Jon asked softly. 

She didn’t answer him, merely turned on heel and went back to her prison. She hefted Mary up under her armpits and dragged her out of the room. She looked at Jon challengingly. 

“She brought you your clothes?” he asked after studying Mary for a few seconds. 

“ _My_ clothes?”

“Yes, yours. I got them from the hotel.”

“What did you do with my phone?” she asked. 

“I have it.”

“Father—”

“He’s not your father, Sansa,” Jon said, and she was surprised by the tone. It was the closest thing to anger that he’d shown her thus far. “He was never your father. Ned Stark was your father.”

“What, like a million years ago?”

“Yes. And a few other lifetimes as well. You loved your father, and he loved you. Petyr loves no one but himself.”

“He loves Mother,” she said defiantly, jutting her chin out. 

“Aye, he does. Or he did, in his own way. I don’t think there is anything left in him that could be called love or sentiment. He has obsession, he has vengeance. He does not know love.”

Sansa didn’t want to admit even to herself that he was possibly right about that. 

“I want you to have a shower, and I want you to change into whatever you like,” Jon said. “I’ll be back within the hour and we’ll have…well, we’ll have lunch now, and talk.”

“Has he called me?” she asked, just as Jon turned to leave with Melisandre. 

Jon sighed and nodded. “Yes. Once. He’s not alarmed yet it seems.”

“But he will be,” she said. _And Mother will be the one to pay._ Before she could do something stupid and emotional like cry, Sansa marched back into her prison and slammed the door shut.


	8. Chapter Seven

The last thing Sansa wanted to do was do what Jon wanted her to do, and yet she really did want to shower and change her clothes. She scrubbed her skin pink in the shower, and nearly gave herself a headache with how she lathered in the shampoo. This was not part of the plan. None of this was. She’d failed. She’d failed Father and Mother –

_Mother…_

Running a brush through her hair, she fought back tears and pushed down the fear she felt for Mother. Giving into either of those emotions would not do her or Mother any favors. She had to get her head back in the game, think clearly, and get back on track. The whole thing had derailed in a big way and she had lost control of it. Targaryen had all the control now. Father would be furious. 

A knock came at the door and Sansa glared at it. She got up and opened it, now glaring at Jon. He wasn’t even phased by it, which infuriated her more. “Do you feel better?” he asked. 

“Define better.”

“Clean.”

She sucked in a sharp breath, and answered “Yes” on the exhale.

“Excellent. Come with me.” He stepped to the side and waited for her to exit the room, and when she did he fell into step beside her to the door leading out. 

It led to another hallway, similar to the one they’d just left, with another door in the middle – another bedroom? They walked through the door at the end of that hallway, and into a lobby of sorts with an elevator. Sansa arched a brow and looked at Jon. 

He shrugged. “I’m rich.”

“Where am I?” she asked. “What is going on down here?”

“I’ll explain over lunch,” he said as the elevator dinged open. They both stepped on and Sansa looked at the panel of numbers and wondered about stopping it and attacking him right here in the elevator. 

“I wouldn’t try it,” Jon said as he pushed button number three. “What you’re thinking about doing. I don’t want to hit you, Sansa, but I will if I have to. Besides, Melisandre is watching.” He pointed to the corner of the elevator. Sansa squinted; she could just make out the smallest bit of a lens. 

She looked at him in horror. “Have you been watching me in my _room_?!” 

“Yes and no.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

He sighed. “The rooms down below is where I keep freshly turned vampires. When they are new, their bloodlust is strong and with their newly discovered strength, they can be dangerous. I need to be able to assure that when I’m not with them, they are not breaking the place apart.”

Sansa gaped at him. Freshly turned vampires? “How many of those rooms and halls do you have?”

“A dozen.”

“How many people are you killing and turning into vampires? A dozen a day?”

He shook his head. “No, Sansa. I only turn the willing. It’s been a project I’ve been working on since…well, since Petyr took you.”

“Why?” she demanded. 

The elevator dinged open and just before he stepped out he said, “To make an army.”

xxxxxxxxxxxx

Sansa was reeling. An army? He was making an army?

When they reached the third floor, they stepped out into another hallway, but this one looked more like a fancy hotel with a large mahogany table and blue roses in an oversized vase facing them. 

Sansa wasn’t sure she’d ever seen blue roses before, so she stared at them in concealed awe, wondering why she kept seeing them in snow in her head. She tore her gaze away to banish the image and looked around. His home – she assumed this was his home – was much like his office. Dark wood, glass, and chrome. Under her feet as he led her down the hall, was a thick Aubusson rug with intricate designs that felt like a mattress under her feet. 

He opened a pair of thick wood doors and there was the dining room. It held a long dark table, and another bouquet of blue roses in the middle. Also, another rug, red, and just as thick as the one in the hallway. There were sconces on the wall, and the windows along the wall overlooked a pond. 

“Where is this place?” Sansa asked. 

“Just on the outskirts of Winterfell. This actually used to be right in the center of it all, but with the passage of time many things have changed. Including boundary lines. This was where the castle itself stood, the castle you and I were raised in. I did manage to salvage a few stones of it and add it to the foundation of this place when I had it built.”

“You just live in this…palace? How do you hide what you are?”

Jon smiled as he pulled out a chair with ornate moldings at the table and gestured for her to sit. “The world is changing, Sansa. It has been for quite some time. I don’t go through great pains to hide what I am, nor do I broadcast it either. I find mortals will discard what they don’t understand, and I use that to my advantage.”

“How do you go out in the sun?” she asked as she moved her chair closer to the table. It was no easy feat. The chair was quite heavy. 

Jon sat across from her, a blue rose angling just so between them. He moved the vase out of the way and pulled the cream linen napkin onto his lap. Sansa followed suit, trying not to feel overwhelmed by everything. 

“Melisandre has something for me for my pesky sun allergy,” he explained. “What does Petyr use?”

“Kinvara. Shade.” She fiddled with the corner of her napkin in her lap. _Stupid capes_ , she thought. Sometimes Father looked about ready to join a Renaissance Faire. 

A door opened to the left and out came servants, dressed in all black, their expressions unreadable. They placed a plate in front of Sansa which consisted of the juiciest hamburger she’d ever seen and a side of golden brown fries. She looked up at Jon in surprise and he smiled. 

“I noticed you ate a lot of burgers,” he explained. 

She nodded to his plate. “You’re having sushi?”

“I am. Would you like some?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A world of no.”

He chuckled. 

A second later a bottle of ketchup appeared beside Sansa’s plate, and then a tall glass of ice water in a tumbler, and a soda. “Coke?” she asked. Jon nodded. 

She inhaled the scent of the food and her stomach growled. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now. Sliding the bun off the burger she squirted some ketchup on top of the lettuce and tomato on top and then onto the plate. She dug in, uncaring of how she was bent on devouring this burger and the fries like the ravenous beast she was. 

This wasn’t the same kind of hunger as when Father would deprive her to teach her a lesson. When he did that, she would have to eat slowly so she wouldn’t throw up. And sometimes, she would reach that odd plateau where she wasn’t so hungry anymore. 

Sansa could feel Jon’s eyes on her the whole time and she wondered what he could possibly glean from watching her eat, but whatever. 

When she was done, she wiped her mouth on the napkin and placed it on the table. She looked over at Jon and found him watching her with a small serene smile on his face. She made a face. “Creepy much?”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, Sansa. Every time I see you again I find it hard to keep my eyes off you.”

She rolled her eyes. “You sound like one of those guys in those Lifetime movies Mother loves so much. Have you been watching me like some kind of perv in my room?”

“No. When I sent Mary I did. I feared you might try something.”

“So you got on my case for knocking her out, but you sent her to me knowing there was a chance I might do something to her?” She snorted derisively. 

The servants came then to clear their plates and then another entered with a box, looking at Jon expectantly. “Are you ready, sir?”

“Yes, Logan, please put the box on the table,” Jon said. “Thank you.”

The servant did as he was told and then nodded and left. Sansa looked at the white box on the table and then at Jon. “What is this?”

“Journals. Diaries. Whatever you wish to call them,” he replied as he stood and went around the table. He dug into the box and extracted a plain leather bound journal tied up with a leather strip. The pages were yellowed and looked a bit crinkly. 

Sansa frowned at it. “Whose are they?”

“They were yours. In some lives you kept them, and I took them when you passed.”

“Why?”

He looked at her sadly. “To have something of you. And, also, for studying. To see if I could find a pattern to your lives, and to Petyr and how he would appear, and then destroy you.”

“You read them?”

“Yes.”

“Intrusive.”

He shrugged. He continued pulling out journals. 

“Why are you showing them to me?” she asked. “You want me to read them?”

“Yes. I want to see if any of them jar your memory. Plus, I want you to read about Petyr, the man you call Father. He’s in here. In all of them. In some you don’t trust him right away. In others, he manages to win you over and then you realize too late that he does not have your best interests at heart. I want you to see for yourself what he is.”

“Let me save you some time. I already know what he is.”

“Do you?” He sounded irritated now. He stopped pulling journals out of the box and looked at her almost challengingly. 

“Yes,” she snapped. 

“Do you honestly believe that man is your father? Do you truly love him as such?”

“My feelings for Father are complicated.”

“Explain them to me. I want to understand.”

“Do you want me to hate him? Do you want me to turn against him?”

“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“We’d destroy him together so that he’d never hurt you again.”

“You’re no better than he is. You’re not very different at least, not from where I’m sitting.”

“I am nothing like Petyr,” Jon snarled. 

“No? You want to use me too. You want me on your side so that I can help you take him down. I’ve been raised to take you down.”

“Because he’s brainwashed you into thinking I am the enemy! He’s made you hate me, Sansa, because all he’s told you are lies!”

“I don’t need his help in hating you, Jon.”

He looked positively flummoxed by that. “What?”

“You’re so consumed with wondering whether or not I know what he is, but do you know what I am?”

“You’re Sansa Stark of Winterfell. You’re the daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark and you are my wife, and the love of my life.”

“No, I’m not any of that. Not in this life. I’m a weapon. I’ve been raised as a weapon. No friends. No freedom. I’m not a person. I’m a pawn in a game of vengeance. You’ve taken everything from me. I’ve had no life. I’ve had nothing of my own. Anything I cared about was taken away from me because Father doesn’t like it when he perceives I care for something more than him. He wants me strong. He wants me brave. He wants me deadly. Do you have any idea what it’s like to grow up like that? I don’t remember my lives. I know this one. And I hate you for this life you’ve taken from me.”

“Sansa,” he croaked. He looked as though she’d actually managed to run him through. Good. 

“And now you want to rally me over to your side so I can help you take him down. This has nothing to do with me. It’s about you and Father and your centuries-long feud, not me!”

Jon shook his head. “It has everything to do with you,” he said softly. “It’s about keeping you safe.”

“So it’s not about keeping me with you at all then?”

He shut his eyes and sighed. 

“Exactly,” she muttered. 

He stood and dug into the box again. “I can’t let you go back to him, Sansa.”

He placed a few more journals on the table. One caught her eyes. Leather bound and black with blue roses twining up the side. It wasn’t just the appearance of the blue roses that caught her eye though. 

It was something else entirely. 

_Jon burst into Sansa’s solar, sweaty from training and immediately set about discarding his tunic. His black hair was wet with sweat and clung to his neck and cheeks. He was panting, and his color was high._

_He nodded to her, at what she was writing in the leather bound book on her desk. “What are you doing?” he asked._

_She smiled over at her husband and dipped her pen in the ink again. “I’ve decided to keep a journal.”_

_“A journal?”_

_She nodded. “I wish to remember all that’s happened to me. To us. I want to pass it down to our children one day so they will know all that we’ve done to ensure their safety and happiness.”_

_Jon smiled as he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He then leaned in and nuzzled at her neck, tickling her unintentionally, and causing her to giggle. He growled playfully and bit at her neck and then put his hand on her protruding pregnant belly. “And how is our babe today?”_

_Sansa put down her pen and sighed with contentment. “Fine. But I find it is I who am needy this afternoon, husband.”_

_“Oh?” he said with mischief in his voice. “And what is it you require, my love?”_

_She turned her head to kiss him. “You.”_

“Sansa, what’s wrong? What is it? Do you feel unwell?”

Sansa’s eyes popped open and she moved her hand from them, not having realized that as the vision had overcome her, she had tried to block it physically by covering her eyes. She looked about the room. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“Melisandre. She’s doing something to me.”

Jon looked confused. “What? What is she doing?”

“You know,” she replied furiously. 

He leaned forward and made to grab her hand that was now resting on the table. She snatched it away before he could touch her. He sighed in frustration. “No, I don’t know. Tell me and I’ll get her to stop. What is it, Sansa?”

She pointed to the journal. “That journal. The one with the blue roses.”

He lifted it carefully. “Yes?”

“I kept it for a purpose. What was that purpose?”

“Do you remember something, Sansa?” he asked, leaning forward, hope written all over his damned face. 

“Why did I keep it, Jon?” she demanded. 

“You wanted a record of all that we had done for our children to keep them safe and to ensure their happiness.”

Sansa rubbed her forehead in agitation. “What is she doing to me? What are _you_ doing to me?” Her voice started to rise with each word. 

“Sansa, it’s not a trick. It’s not magick. You remembered something. You remembered why you kept the journal, didn’t you?”

“I keep seeing you in furs. Why do I keep seeing you in furs?”

“Because you’re remembering, my love.”

“I’m not your love!” she shouted and pushed away from the table. She got to her feet and started to pace. 

Melisandre burst into the room then, looking worried. “Your Grace, there’s something you need to see.”

“Not now, Melisandre,” Jon said in aggravation.

“Yes, Your Grace, _now_.”

“I said no, Melisandre!”

“The White Walkers, Jon,” Melisandre hissed. “They’ve been resurrected.”


	9. Chapter Eight

Sansa looked at Melisandre, who was quite distressed, and then at Jon, also clearly distressed judging by the pinch of his brows and the frown on his face. "White Walkers?" she asked, looking from Jon to Melisandre, and then back to Jon again. "What are White Walkers? Is that a gang or something?"

Jon's mouth pursed together in a straight line as he darted a glance at her before settling his gaze on Melisandre. "What are you talking about?"

"I went on the line--"

"Did you just say 'on the line'?" Sansa asked. 

Melisandre ignored her. "It was right there in the headlines. They of course did not use the word 'White Walker', instead they used the word creature. But there was footage, Jon, in Beijing. I would know them anywhere. So would you." She glanced at Sansa and frowned while her hands twisted together before her, a sign of agitation. "He's doing something."

Sansa felt the body clench with dread, and it wasn't just because Melisandre was as tense as a bowstring, nor was it the edge of hysteria in her voice at the mention of these "White Walkers". It was the mention of Beijing. That was where they had been living this last time. It didn't take a genius to figure out who the "He" was in "He's doing something". That could only mean Father, and especially in conjunction with the word "creature." She'd heard Mother referred to as such before. "What is a White Walker?" she asked softly. 

"A creature of mass destruction," Jon said. "Originally, the Night King was created to protect the Children from man--"

"You've already lost me. Children? Like kids? And Night King? This sounds like the set up of a Neil Gaiman book."

Jon wiped a hand down his face and sighed heavily. He was annoyed. It pleased her. Melisandre was annoyed, too, judging by the sound of irritation and disgust she emitted. That didn't please Sansa so much. 

"I'll explain after I see what Melisandre saw online," Jon said. "Why don't we follow her?"

With an arched brow and a pointed look at Sansa, Melisandre turned abruptly and glided down the hall in her elegant red...no. Pants suit. Melisandre was wearing a black pants suit. Why did she see her in a long, flowing red gown that looked medieval? 

Sansa heaved in a steadying breath. She saw Melisandre in that dress for the same reason she kept seeing Jon in furs and had visions of them together. He was doing something to her. Or making Melisandre do it. He had to be. What other explanation was there for it? She didn't like her mind being messed with, but that wasn't the problem at present now was it? No. It was "White Walkers" in Bejiing. 

_Father, what are you up to? Is Mother all right? Please say Mother is all right..._

The room they went into was a sitting room, or at least Sansa imagined it was. There was a long plush beige couch, another Aubusson rug, and a fireplace. It didn't look used however, and above it, mounted on the wall, was a rather large TV. More blue roses in vases adorned each end of the mantle. Sansa looked to the right. The room went on and on - chairs, tables, a built-in bookcase along three-quarters of a wall. There was nothing out of place. Nothing. Sansa couldn't even see dust on any the surfaces. 

The sound of screaming jarred her from gaping at the room and she jerked her head toward the TV. For someone who said "on the line", Melisandre apparently still know her way around a computer... and her way around Chromecast. 

On the screen, they were confronted with something that did in fact look like it was out of a Neil Gaiman novel... and produced by Tim Burton. The footage itself was shaky - obviously someone was filming on their phone, and there was the sound of heavy breathing amidst the screaming in the background. 

The creature in question on the screen looked almost human aside from the glowing, otherworldly blue eyes and the body that looked like...well, like ice. It was grayish white with a sheen it, and it looked hard and unforgiving. Jagged somehow.They were also tall, a bit wrinkly about the face, and had white beards. Beards that looked like icicles. It was the look on their faces and in their eyes that startled Sansa the most though. The emptiness there. The lack of expression. It reminded her of an old 80s horror movie she had watched once on Halloween. The killer that stalked baby-sitters and wore a mask devoid of any kind of emotion. 

Right now, there were three of them looming over humans who were running in the other direction on some random busy street. Snow blew around the area which was jarring enough. It was nowhere near winter in Beijing. 

The humans ran, looking over their shoulder at the White Walkers. The three of them kept walking, expressionless, and when a hapless human came close to one, it reached out and touched him on the shoulder. Sansa watched in a mixture of awe and abject uneasiness as the human's skin turned white and his eyes began to glow blue. 

Sansa pointed a shaky finger at the screen. "Did he just - did he just change into that thing?"

"He did," Jon said grimly. He made his way around the couch and sat down next to Melisandre, never taking his eyes off the screen. 

The just changed human now charged forward with unnatural speed and the person manning the phone screamed and then the screen went black. 

Jon grabbed a TV remote off the large mahogany coffee table in front of the couch and clicked a few buttons until the regular TV turned on. The news flashed on and a spooked looking male reporter showed up on the TV with a picture of a White Walker beside him. "Some frightening things have been going on in Beijing. This creature...or more apt would be monster, was spotted down a busy shopping area. They appeared out of nowhere and brandished only a few weapons that looked, strangely enough, like giant icicles in the shape of swords. Forty were killed and about twenty were... _changed_. I'm not sure how else to describe it..." He trailed off, looking bewildered and shell-shocked. "The monsters disappeared as quickly and as suddenly as they appeared leaving all of us to wonder what where they? What did they want? And will they return again?"

Monsters appearing and then disappearing? That was definitely Father's doing. Or rather Father's doing with the advanced help of Kinvara. Sansa drew her arms around herself. "I want my phone. I need to call Father." She was legitimately concerned about him, fearful that he'd bitten off more than he could chew. And where had Mother been during all that?

Jon turned his body to the side and just looked at her as thoughtfully. He rubbed his beard with one hand and then looked at Melisandre. They gazed at one another, having a silent conversation that unnerved Sansa even more. 

"Did you hear me?" Sansa asked, her voice rising, almost shrill. "I need to call him. I need to find out if he is all right. If Mother is all right too."

Jon looked at her, incredulous. "You're worried about him?" He sounded incredulous too. 

"He's my father," she said stubbornly. 

"He's not your father!" Jon shouted as he got to his feet. He stormed over to her, grabbed her arm, and dragged her to the door, and then out of the door to the elevator. Before they could step on though, Sansa dug in her heels to stop him from pulling her onto it. "I want to talk to him!" she shouted. 

Jon yanked her on, his vampire strength in full force. He looked furious, and a part of Sansa recoiled. Growing up, she had learned to be aware of Father's oft-changing moods. Some days you walked on eggshells around him. On those days, she felt as though she could barely breathe. And now, feeling Jon's anger waft off of him, she felt that same instinct. 

But, he was the enemy and she had to fight that instinct. 

She opened her mouth to speak, but Jon held up a hand. She flinched, but he didn't see it. "No more, Sansa," he said. "Not another word."

She thought about talking anyway, but she didn't know what to say really. Her thoughts were a muddle. She needed time to think. To plan for...what?

She wanted Mother. Mother would know what to do. So would Father, Father always knew what to do, and he always had a plan, but it was Mother she wanted and needed right now...and Sansa didn't even know if she was alive. 

xxxxxxxxxx

“You lost your patience with her,” Melisandre said once Jon had returned from having taken Sansa back to her room.

Jon swiped a hand down his face. “I know.”

“You’ve never had to contend with a Sansa so attached to Petyr.”

Jon frowned. “Attached. Is that the right word?”

“You can’t deny that she is. She think of him as her father. She was concerned about him.”

Jon sighed. “I know,” he said, sounding defeated.

“Perhaps what you need, or rather, what she needs, is a push.”

Jon looked at her with narrowed eyes. “A push, eh? Is that what’s happening?”

Melisandre furrowed her brows in clear puzzlement. “Pardon?”

“She’s having memories, Melisandre. She said she keeps seeing me in furs, and just before you came in to tell us about the White Walkers, she’d had a visceral reaction to seeing her diary when she was my Queen. She let her guard down for just a little while.” He raked a hand through his hair in frustration. “She was so close to letting me in and then fucking Baelish had to go and muck it all up as he does with everything.

Melisandre’s red lips fell open in shock. “She’s actually remembering?”

“What did you do to her? Did you give her my blood?”

Melisandre rose from the sofa and shook her head emphatically. “Your Grace, no. I have not given her your blood. I have been waiting for you to tell me I can. I’ve done nothing, I swear it.”

Jon kept his narrowed gaze on her for a few beats. He could read Melisandre like a book after all this time, and he could tell she was telling the truth. Well then. That was hopeful. Sansa was remembering on her own.

“If you would like to make things progress further—” Melisandre began.

“No,” Jon said with a wave of his hand. “It’s not time for such drastic measures yet. If she is remembering on her own, then there may be no reason to force her memories forward.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

Jon groaned and hung his head. “I really wish you would stop calling me that.”

“And now it seems we have another pressing matter to deal with,” Melisandre said. “She could be an asset. She knows Petyr better than anyone I wager.”

Jon laughed humorlessly. “You think I don’t know Baelish by now?”

“You do, but she has been raised by him. She could know of his plans.”

“She didn’t know about the White Walkers,” Jon pointed out. “Either she’s a terrific actress, or he kept that from her. I’m betting he kept it from her. Baelish likes to have a few cards up his sleeve.”

“So, you’re saying the White Walkers are cards up his sleeve?”

Jon nodded gravely. “Yes.”

“For what purpose, do you think?”

Jon sighed. “Something to do with power, I’d wager. Everything Baelish does is for power. He is forever seeking the upper hand.”

Melisandre frowned. “Jon…is this his army?”

“For all our sakes, I sincerely hope not,” Jon muttered. But he had a terrible feeling she was onto something.

xxxxxxxxx

Later, as she lay on her bed, Sansa did think of one thing she wanted to say to Jon: _How much do you really care for me if your first instinct is to throw me back in my cell?_

But the quiet was needed. After pacing and allowing herself to just worry for a solid fifteen minutes, she got serious about what she wanted to do. Many times Mother asked that of her, and many times Sansa never had an answer for her. What Father wanted was what she wanted. How many times had that been pounded into her head? She had Father’s wants and needs. She didn’t have any of her own.

So it was hard for her to think of what she wanted for herself without it feeling as though she was betraying Father. It was also hard to stop the creeping dread that overcame her when she did think about what it was she wanted. She feared Father would somehow sense it and find some way to punish her for her traitorous thoughts.

Father was fond of reminding her of all that he did for her – saving her from Jon stealing her away, trying to protect her in other lifetimes, loving her unconditionally, and hiring the best teachers to teach her how to defend herself and protect herself from Jon.

She felt guilty for thinking it wasn't enough. Or for thinking about how he'd hurt her too. 

The only thing she kept going back to was Mother. 

She wanted Mother. She wanted to get Mother and run away. Run far away from Father, from Jon, from White Walkers, magick, vampires, and anything and everything that could hurt them. Whatever Father was doing, what he had planned, she wanted no part of it. She just wanted...Father forgive her, but all she wanted was to be happy and safe, and for Mother to be safe and happy as well. 

A calm unlike nothing she'd ever felt before swept through Sansa. Was this what it felt like to know what you wanted? To think for yourself? Sure she had no plan at all, but she could make one. Make one and stick to it, and this time she had a goal - _her own goal_ \- in mind. 

Nibbling on her bottom lip, Sansa sat down on the bed and pondered a plan...


	10. Chapter Nine

Something was up.

When Jon came to get Sansa the next morning for breakfast, he found her compliant. Formal and compliant. She didn't snap at him, she wasn't snarky, she followed him demurely to breakfast with her hands folded before her.

It was unnerving for a couple reasons: 1. this was not the Sansa he had been exposed to thus far and 2. her formal behavior reminded him so very much of his original Sansa.

She often displayed notes of his first Sansa in other lifetimes, and each and every time it both pleased him and rattled him. It reminded him of all he'd lost when he lost her: her, their child, and everything they had fought for. It also reminded him of why he had chosen to become a vampire in the first place. To be with her always, in any way he could. Even that one time she'd been a man.

"Did you sleep well?" he asked once they were seated for breakfast. He unfolded a napkin and placed it on her lap. He looked up and found her watching him.

"Let's just cut to the chase," she said.

"This should be good," he said.

Not even a glare as she continued on. "Whatever Father is doing looks pretty awful."

"It doesn't just look it, it is. Those creatures could wipe out a city in no time flat. And, typically, their version of wiping out a city is creating more creatures like them. They don't just kill, Sansa, they make an army. Whatever he's conjured them up for, I don't think last night was the last we'll see of them. He's planning something. Do you know what for?"

"No, I don't," she said. "When I left him he stayed back. He said he had business to take care of, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. Obviously, this was it."

Jon studied her, taking in the brightness of her blue eyes - those Tully blue eyes that had always reminded him of Catelyn. He searched for subterfuge in them now, in her beautiful face so open and clear. He didn't see lies. He saw stark honesty and frankness there. Almost...resignation.

"Why do you think he wouldn't tell you about this?" Jon asked just as a few maids came in with their food. There were heaping plates of scrambled eggs, frittatas, and bacon, two bowls of fresh strawberries and blueberries, a canister of real maple syrup, and a bowl of clotted cream. Sansa looked as though she wanted to face plant into the food, and it made Jon wonder if Petyr ever fed her.

"I don't know," Sansa said, tearing her gaze away from the food and looking at him. "Father...has his secrets."

"Mmm. I know."

Her eyes flashed with temper. "Can we talk about yours for a second?"

Jon looked at her sharply. "Pardon?"

"I'd like to discuss the big secret you've kept from me."

He sat back, looked at her warily. "And what would that be?"

"You were planning on stealing me from my birth parents first. That is true, is it not?"

His jaw clenched, and he looked oddly pained. "Yes."

Despite the fact that Father had told her that and she'd believed it, there was some part of her that was actually...disappointed. It didn't make any sense to feel that way. He was the enemy that had been drilled into her head since she knew what words were for crying out loud. It wasn’t like she knew Jon, and it wasn’t as though he’d given her any reason to trust him. She was his captive for all intents and purposes, but…

But…

There was no mistaking the look of horror on his face when he saw the White Walkers. There had been the concern for the civilians who were being stalked by them. Wouldn’t someone truly evil not give a crap? Wouldn’t he have instead been wondering why he hadn’t thought of it first?

The White Walkers were truly evil – there was no getting away from it. They were certainly not a peaceful race looking to spread love and joy. No, they had attempted to change people. To make them monsters just like them. And it was Father that had them conjured up. 

It was possible that Father was…

She couldn’t even say it. It felt like a betrayal. It felt like he would know and find some way to hurt her. 

“I was tired of losing you,” Jon explained. “I wanted to protect you once and for all. I wanted to put an end to the fight between Petyr and myself. I thought if I could take you away from where he could ever get to you, I would have a chance to do just that.”

“Were you going to raise me as your own?” she asked. 

“No. I had a family lined up to take care of you. They have since become vampires and joined my army.”

“Were you ever going to make yourself known to me then?”

“Of course. When you were of age. But, as you see, it never worked out. He found out somehow and, well, here we are.”

“You’re a little intense, you know that, right?”

He smirked. “Am I?”

Unable to wait any longer, Sansa began to scoop bacon onto her plate. “You don’t know?” she asked somewhat incredulously. 

“I’ve always been told I brood too much.”

“You had a plan to take me from my birth parents,” she said flatly. 

“So did he. No doubt to thwart me.”

“This is why I wonder how much of this is actually about me and not just your fight with him.”

“A tremendous part is about you. It’s about what he thinks he lost, but never even had, to begin with. It’s about hatred and vengeance he had built up against your original father, Ned Stark. How he lost whom you now call Mother to Ned, and then lost you to me. You reminded him of her once. It was why he wanted you. That, and the fact that you brought him closer to the Iron Throne.” He sighed, and reached for the plate of frittatas. He placed a few on his plate followed by the fruit and cream and then pushed the plates Sansa’s way. She began to pile her plate with them as well. “So, why don’t you tell me what you’re planning?”

She didn’t stop what she was doing and give him the reaction she knew he was waiting for. Instead, she speared a strawberry with her fork and said, “I’m planning something?”

“Sansa, let’s not play games. Just tell me.”

She licked cream off her finger and Jon watched the movement avidly. Her cheeks heated and she cleared her throat. “I want my mother, ” she said simply. 

“Catelyn?”

“Whatever you want to call her.”

“What do you want to do with her?”

“I want to get her and go far away from all this. I don’t know what’s going on with the White Walkers, and I don’t… I know it’s probably awful of me to say I don’t care, but I don’t. If you and Father want to have the battle of the century and create armies and resurrect freaky walking ice sculptures, have at it. I want no part of it. All I want is my mother.” Her voice cracked at the end, much to her chagrin, but not knowing if Mother had been harmed in any way was weighing on her. “If Father discovers that I am your prisoner…” She heaved a sigh, trying to calm herself. She wasn’t prone to hysterics, and she didn’t like to cry because as far as Father was concerned they were a manipulation or a sign of weakness. Father hated manipulation in others, and he didn’t stand for weakness, ergo Sansa didn’t show any. “I don’t know what he’ll do to her.”

Jon sighed and rubbed his chin. He looked contemplative. “So then what do you propose?”

“I propose that we work together. If you’ll help me get my mother away from Father, then I’ll help you discover exactly what he has planned.”

“And you would do that? Share information with me against the man you call your father.”

“Yes.”

He cocked his head to the side. “It’s not easy for yo, though, is it? Even just talking about this is making you…twitchy.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, hating how he picked up on things like that. “I was raised as his daughter. He’s the only parent I’ve ever known. Of course, I have trouble with the idea of betraying him.”

“I saw your face yesterday when you were watching the White Walkers. You were horrified by them and what they did.”

“So?”

“So as much as you say you don’t care what he’s doing, I think you do.”

“Listen, this isn’t going to be a moral issue okay? I’m not going to help you because I care about the human race and what’s going to happen to it. I care about my mother and our safety and that’s it.”

“If Petyr is planning to resurrect the White Walkers then there is no such thing as safety, Sansa,” he said tersely. “They will wipe out the humans. They have no way to fight them.”

“And what does that have to do with me? What does it even have to do with you? You’re a vampire for crying out loud, and you’ve been creating an army.”

“I don’t change them unless they want to be changed. I make sure they have all the facts before I do it.”

Sansa barked out a laugh. “Do you hand out pamphlets or something? Give a class? ‘I’m a vampire, ask me how?’.” She folded her arms across her chest and sat back, glaring at him. “I thought you cared about me, Jon.”

“I do care about you, Sansa. Very much.”

“No,” she shook her head. Her temper was sparked now. “You care about the other Sansa. The one I don’t remember. And you care about winning. Not me. You don’t know me, and you don’t want to know me.” She pushed her chair back and placed her palms flat on the table on either side of her plate. “I don’t care if the other Sansa was a freaking Joan of Arc type. I don’t care if she sacrificed herself at the altar of saving humanity. When are you going to get it through your thick head that I. Am. Not. Her?” She grabbed her fork and grasped it in her fist, thinking how satisfying it would be to hurl it at him. 

“Put it down, Sansa,” Jon said softly. He seemed almost unfazed by the fact that she had, for all intents and purposes, a weapon in her hand. Granted, a weapon that would do nothing to truly harm him, but still. 

She slammed the fork down so hard the table shook. 

“Sit down,” he said. 

She considered not doing what he asked at all, but this…crap, this was not the way to get him to agree to an alliance. Could she do nothing right? 

“What do you want from me?” she asked as she sat down, feeling not for the first time utterly defeated. 

“You know how vampires are made I presume?” he asked. 

She nodded. “An exchange of blood. You bite the intended and drain them, then cut yourself open on your wrist and have them drink from you.”

“And do you know what happens when a vampires mate?”

She looked at him in confusion. “Vampires mate?”

He smiled. “Yes, they do.”

“Do you have…?”

“How could I have a mate if you’re sitting right here, and fully mortal to boot?”

She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“When vampires mate, there is another exchange of blood. No draining involved, but each one bites the other and there is another blood exchange, but this one is much more potent. There is magick in it. When vampires mate they can feel and see everything their mate feels and sees.”

“That sounds horrible.”

“The connection, as I understand it, can be turned off if one or both chooses to do so.”

“Fascinating. Why are you telling me this exactly?”

“When a mortal ingests even just a drop of vampire blood, they can see through the vampire’s eyes. They can see everything that the vampire has experienced and felt.”

“You want me to ingest your blood?” she asked, her lips curling in disgust. 

“It wouldn’t have to be straight from the tap. Melisandre has a few bags stored for me. She could put a drop in an elixir so that the visions wouldn’t overwhelm you.”

“You have bags of your own blood lying around?”

He shrugged. “You must know that a vampire heals faster with his own blood to replenish them.”

She didn’t know that. But she suspected that it was another one of those things Father kept close to his chest. Since she didn’t want to dwell on the reasons why Father might not have shared that information with her, she instead asked, “Why does Melisandre have them? Why not you?”

“She has them in a place in which her magick is the only key to get to them.”

“And you trust her that much? With your life?”

He laughed softly. “After all this time, I would hope we had trust between us.”

It defied all reason, but Sansa felt a spark of jealousy over the close relationship Jon had with the red witch. It angered her to feel even a morsel of jealousy so to cover it up she said, “She’s the one you should be with.”

He fell silent as he studied her with an expression she couldn’t read, but unnerved her all the same. “Do you trust me, Sansa?” he asked. 

Okay, not what she thought he would say next. Not after that comment about Melisandre, but sure, she could roll with this. 

“Yes and no,” she said.

“Sixty-forty?”

“Thirty-seventy maybe. You?”

“Less than that,” he said matter-of-factly. “I can’t trust you fully until you have all the facts.”

“As you see them,” she muttered. 

“The blood doesn’t lie. I’ll prick myself right now if you don’t trust Melisandre.”

She looked at him challengingly. “Fine then,” she said. “Do it.”

And then he brought his hand to his mouth and did.


	11. Chapter Ten

Sansa watched Jon move his pricked finger from his mouth and squeeze out a fat drop of blood into the small glass of water that was next to her orange juice. She watched it fall in and then break apart. Her heart thudded hard in her chest and she didn't bother to try and cover it up. 

One drop of his blood and she'd see it all from his eyes. She'd learn everything. Just by giving her his blood like this, Sansa knew on some level exactly what this meant, and the part of her that was still loyal to Father, despite how she questioned him and his motives as of late, rebelled against this. _Strongly_. Then there was the part of her that wanted the truth because then then, maybe she could finally be free of the guilt that plagued her when she had her traitorous thoughts. It would make grabbing Mother and going so much easier for her. Maybe. Sort of. 

She'd make an enemy of him. But she'd already made that bed when she'd decided to think for herself. When she decided that she'd wanted freedom. 

_You never should have sent me here, Father,_ she thought. _Not alone._

It was easier to blame him than herself for her betrayal. Easier, but not sound, because she felt guilty as soon as she thought it. This was her doing, not his. She was the one making the decisions, and she was terrified. Oh God, was she terrified. 

So, of course here she was with another decision to make. To drink his blood and gain knowledge, or did she not drink his blood and continue on like this, always having to be a thousand steps ahead of Jon out of fear that he'd screw her over, possibly kill her, and thwart all attempts at helping her escape?

She wondered what went through Eve's head when she was offered up the fruit of knowledge. Funnily enough, when Father had told her the story of Adam and Eve when teaching her the various mythologies surrounding all the religions of the world, he had thought Eve smart for taking the apple. "It's what I would have done," he'd told her. And yet he didn't always seem to hold women in high esteem. She'd heard him more than once reduce a woman to what was between their legs and then tell her that he'd taught her well, and trusted that his teachings would guide her to "doing the right thing." Of course by that he meant doing what he wanted. 

_Focus, Sansa._

Jon didn't trust her, he'd made that pretty clear, and how could they ever possibly work together if he didn't? Taking a drop of his blood was enough for him to trust her, and though it was nothing off his back for her to do this, the implications for her were going off like warning bells in her head. 

It would change things between them. She knew this. She would see herself and all her past lives. She would feel what he had felt. See herself as he had seen her...saw her. That was so...intimate. Could she handle it? Did she want to? How was he all right with her being witness to all his feelings like that? 

She supposed it was because he really had nothing much to lose. Nothing would change for him. If anything, he had everything to gain from this. What would she gain though? The truth, yes, but what would it cost her? What toll would it take on her? 

"Are you prepared to see your past lives?" he asked softly. 

She held up a hand. "Don't talk. Let me think."

He sat back, looking slightly amused. 

"And for God's sake, don't watch me do it," she said with a roll of her eyes. 

"What would you have me do then?"

"I don't know," she said irritably, "I just know I don't want you here right now, and I don't want you around hovering if I decide to drink it."

"Sansa, what you'll experience will be quite intense. Someone needs to be there to make sure you're all right."

"Am I going to have convulsions?"

"No."

"Start foaming at the mouth?"

He chuckled. "No."

"Then I'll be fine." 

But she knew she wouldn't be. She knew it would be hard. She knew it would suck up one side and down the other, but it wasn't something she wanted him to be able to witness: her seeing it all. _Feeling_ it all. He obviously had no qualms about sharing something so intimate with her, but she sure as hell had plenty for the both of them. 

_What was **wrong** with him?_

"Sansa--"

"Do you think I'm going to fake drinking it or something? I don't think I can just pretend to have seen a bunch of stuff, do you?"

He fell silent and when she looked at him out of the corner of her eye, she found him studying her thoughtfully. She wanted to punch him again. “What?” she demanded testily.

“You’re afraid.”

“Oh, good God,” she muttered and grabbed the glass, pulling it in against her chest. She looked down into it. No sign of the blood in there now. It was just a regular glass of water. Her leg started to bounce up and down under the table until Jon put his hand over her knee. She looked at him and glared.

“It’s normal to be afraid, Sansa," he said gently. "What you’re about to do, if you decide to do it, is a big step.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“Sansa—”

“Listen, I just need you to stop talking now, okay? Maybe it is normal for me be to have my reservations about ingesting your blood, but there is nothing normal about any of this. Nothing normal about any part of my life, and if I succeed in taking Mother and getting far away from all this, there isn’t even anything normal about that. She’s a zombie, okay? My life will never be normal no matter how much I want it to be and quite frankly, I blame you.”

“You blame me for a lot.”

“I didn’t ask for any of this. I was an innocent baby born to a family and then taken away.” She looked down into the glass of water again. “If I could I would be Margaery.”

“Margaery? The girl you were with at the bar?”

She nodded. “Yes. She has a normal life. No knowledge of the things that go bump in the night. Probably a normal family. A hot boyfriend.”

“Sansa.”

“Oh, unclench. It’s not like I’m going to pursue him or anything. Robb was the first boy I could talk to without getting tongue-tied or worried that…”

“That what?” Jon asked softly.

“That he’d be killed because I liked him,” she murmured.

“Are you saying—”

“I’ve said too much.” She sighed. “I’m not sure what it is about you that makes me admit these things.” She held up a finger when he began to speak. “So help me if you say it’s because of all the lives we spent together.”

He clamped his mouth shut and held up his hands. He even mimed zipping up his lips. It was so silly and ridiculous that Sansa couldn’t help but laugh. A short laugh until she remembered herself. Jon looked pleased, quite pleased, until she came back to herself and scowled at him.

“You’re not going to let me do this in peace, are you?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, but I can’t.”

She lifted the glass until the sunlight coming in through the window streamed through it. “Well then,” she said. “Bottoms up.”

She downed it in one gulp; it was a small glass.

At first nothing happened, and for once Jon shut up. Funny how he had gone from being nearly mute and giving nothing away to never shutting up. Or maybe it was just that when he spoke he annoyed her and it felt like too much.

All of this was too much.

She heard his chair creak and out of the corner of her eye could see him leaning forward, waiting. It was kind of comical, like something out of a movie. She started to tell him nothing was happening when something happened.

It didn’t happen quite happen the way he thought, certainly not the way he described. Not completely anyway. There were flashes of images in her mind’s eye. She saw her and Jon as the original Jon and Sansa. She saw Mother – oh, Mother how beautiful you were!

She saw – Robb?! Robb was her brother then? No, wait…he was – oh my God, he was her brother now too. Jon knew who her parents were! Not personally, but he knew of them. She saw a young Robb, and felt the pang of guilt and longing from Jon that this Robb was so much like _their_ Robb in Winterfell. 

She saw the dragons she’d heard so much about, the White Walkers, how he fought them, how absolutely terrifying they were, and – oh God. He’d gotten the news after defeating them that she and their firstborn son had died in childbirth.

She gasped when the pain of that hit her. _His_ pain. It felt like a fucking goddamn knife ripping her in two.

Her hands curled around the wood of the armrest and she gripped it hard.

She saw him being offered another way to live with the opportunity to see her again. She saw Melisandre with a vampire that changed Jon. Her knowledge of vampires was filled in.

It wasn’t just she saw it all through his eyes like a movie playing out in her head, it was instead as though her mind was just filled in. It was like a movie montage of someone writing on a blank piece of paper that was next seen filled up. She got flashes like memories coming to her.

She was a lady-in-waiting, a milkmaid, a nude model for a painter (one guess who the painter was), she was a servant, another highborn lady, a flapper and adventurous pilot, a man –

Whoa. She’d been a man.

The list went on. And Jon loved each and every incarnation of her so intensely it stole Sansa’s breath and made her well up in tears. How could her bear to feel this way all the time? What was wrong with him? How could he stand it?

Then the knowledge of Father filled in. She recoiled. He was just as cold. Just as calculating, and with a thirst for vengeance that had just grown over the years. It had twisted him and made him ugly – at least that was how she saw him through Jon’s eyes.

She saw Jon find her dead each time Father did something to her. She heard Father taunt him. She saw them fight. She felt the pain and the hatred Jon felt like a twist of her gut. She felt his frustration. His determination to keep her safe.

And she saw blackness. Periods of blackness where he must have slept. She saw him awaken each time, ready to see her. To wait for her.

“How have you not killed yourself?” she whispered and shut her eyes tight.

She felt his hand cover hers on the armrest and she jerked it away. She opened her eyes and pushed her chair back. The images and the knowledge trickled in slowly and she felt restless. She wanted them to stop, but they just kept coming and coming and coming…

“Make it stop make it stop make it stop!” she shouted, gripping her hair in her fists at the top of her head.

“I can’t do that, Sansa,” he said. He got up and tried to follow her as she paced. Then he gave up and just watched her closely. “I told you—”

“Don’t say it!”

She dropped her arms to her sides and stared at him. “How do you do it?” she asked in bewilderment. “How can you stand it? God, it’s so awful.”

“What is, sweetheart?”

“Love. What a mess. What a _tragedy_.”

“Love is a gift, Sansa. It can be a mess and it can be a tragedy, but it’s the greatest power on Earth.”

“I’m missing the life where you worked for Hallmark…”

“Very funny.”

“I thought so.” She sat down on the floor and slumped over, burying her face in her hands.

Father had lied to her. She felt as though that should have come as more of a surprise than it did, but…but she’d been doubting him for a while now. That didn’t mean that it didn’t – hurt? Hurt didn’t seem to really capture the breadth and depth of what she felt about it. Mostly, she felt angry. It was an emotion she could deal with better; it made her feel safer. It was something she could work with. Father – _Petyr_ – was perpetually angry even under that cool façade he presented to the world. Perhaps she did get something from him aside from learning how to fight.

Playacting with Jon had never felt like something she could do, and in the end it hadn’t worked out for her at all. Maybe it was just the cause she couldn’t get behind in the end. Kill Jon Targaryen because of all those lives in the past he had stolen from her – or all those lives Father – _Petyr_ – had been unable to control her. She didn’t remember her lives. There wasn’t a connection to the goal of killing Jon without that rather large part missing. 

She had enough hatred in her borne out of the sheer fact that their little war was the reason she sometimes just wanted to die. What did she have that was her own? Even in this, there was no feeling her former self’s emotions, there was only feeling Jon’s.

So, yes, she was angry. And she could work with it, because now she had a clear goal in sight: run far away from this madness with Mother. Start a new life. And she could playact the hell out of it with Father – _Petyr_ – now because he deserved nothing. Nothing at all. Jon could have him.

She hated the pang of guilt and the wince that produced.

To her horror, she started to cry. Sob, really. Deep, heavy sobs that wracked her whole body. Her whole life had been a lie. A sham. When she felt Jon place a hand on her shoulder, she jerked away from him.

Her revenge on both of them would be to leave them to tear each other apart. Maybe they’d both die in the end, or maybe there would be a victor. She didn’t care. She wasn’t going to be around long enough to be considered the prize at the end of it.


	12. Chapter Eleven

Jon sat alone in the dining room, sitting in his chair and staring, unseeing, out the window. Breakfast had been cleared away while he’d escorted Sansa back to her room. Her head, she claimed, hurt. She wanted to lie down and let the visions and _knowing_ of his life settle in her mind.

He’d watched her from the door as she’d dropped down on the bed and curled up, pulling the blanket over her body and then the pillow over her head. He’d stood there and watched her for quite some time, expecting at any minute she’d tell him to go away, but she didn’t.

Finally, he’d left and returned to the dining room. He did his best thinking there. Plus, it overlooked what used to be the hot springs of Winterfell and it reminded him of his long ago home and family. It soothed him, the sight of it.

“What has happened, Your Highness?”

Jon didn’t even look at Melisandre when he answered, “I gave her my blood.”

He heard Melisandre’s sharp intake of breath.

“You – how?”

“The old-fashioned way,” Jon replied, finally looking at her. “I nicked my thumb with my teeth and dropped it in her water.” His grin was not heartfelt, and was more of a grimace. “Well, maybe not exactly the old-fashioned way. She didn’t drink from me.”

“How did this come to pass?” Melisandre asked as she came upon the table and pulled out the chair that Sansa had occupied earlier.

“Not there,” he said briskly and pointed the chair next to it. “There.”

She moved on without missing a beat and sat down; she looked at him expectantly.

Jon sighed. “She wants to leave. She wants to take Lady Stoneheart and go far away from Littlefinger and far away from me. She said she’d help me figure out what Littlefinger is up to if I help her escape. She suggested we work together to make that happen, and I told her that I couldn’t trust her enough to work with her until she had the facts.”

Melisandre placed her hands in her lap. “I see. And how did it go?”

He shot her a look. “I can hear the tone, Mel.”

“What tone would that be?”

Jon rolled his eyes. “The tone that said you know exactly how it went.”

“It must have been overwhelming for her.”

He barked out a laugh. “To say the least. She’s resting right now; blocking out the world.”

“Jon, I don’t think it would take much for Sansa to want to block out the world.”

He pushed away from the table and stood, jamming his hands in the pockets of his dress pants. “I know, I know,” he said brusquely. “She’s not the same this time. She’s different.”

“Jon,” Melisandre began, and already he could tell she was about to attempt to give him some advice, perhaps some pearls of wisdom and insight.

Jon didn’t want to hear it. “I get it. She’s not the same as the other incarnations, but she’s still my Sansa. She’s still in there even when she’s hating me and blaming me for having a part in ruining her life.”

Melisandre sat back. “Now I really see.”

“See what?” Jon hollered. “Stop talking in riddles, and just say what you fucking mean!”

It irritated Jon that she was completely nonplussed by his shouting at her. She took it all in stride which just made him feel worse.

“You feel guilty,” she said.

“And what do I have to feel guilty for, eh? For loving her? For wanting to protect her? For wanting to be with her? For not being able to just fucking defeat that blimey bastard so her and I could have some goddamned peace?” He put a fist to his forehead and let out a roar of pure rage. “Yes!” he said raggedly. “Yes, I feel guilty. She’s…she’s fucking right! My obsession with her is no different than his yet I’m possibly even worse because I dress it up by saying I love her! He just wants power and control and vengeance and I just want _her_. I want…goddammit, Mel, I just want some fucking _peace_.”

“Then perhaps what you should do is exactly as she asked, Jon. If she is willing to help you discover what Littlefinger is up to, and perhaps help defeat him, then you should let her.”

“And?”

She sighed. “And help her flee with Lady Stoneheart.”

“How is that giving me peace exactly?” he demanded, nearly spitting in his frustration.

“You love her, yes?”

“Off all people, how can you ask me that?” he whispered, his eyes welling up in tears. “She’s part of me.”

“You wouldn’t be dressing it up then, if you let her go. Your relentless pursuit of her has not necessarily been for her, but for you. I have often wondered what would happen if you had let her alone. Would he have too? This Sansa is not like the others. She has all the information now. She came armed with some, but now the blanks have been filled in for the most part. She is a Sansa who does not know herself. The best thing you can do for her, for this incarnation of her, is to let her go. You’ll find peace knowing you did right by her.”

Jon shut his eyes tight and tears dropped down. “Every time she dies, Mel, a part of me goes with her. I don’t even know who _I_ am anymore. I am not myself, and I fear I haven’t been for quite a while.”

“Do you know, I rather she’d like that. You being a bit lost. She’d understand it.” Melisandre pushed the chair back and stood. “This could be the beginning of whole new era.”

“A whole new era of what?” he asked bitterly.

“Well, we’ll see,” she said and left the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

“Sansa.”

Jon’s rasp pulled her from her sleep abruptly – she’d always been a light sleeper. She moaned and shifted in bed. “Go ‘way.”

“You need to eat, love. You’ve slept the day away. Besides, Petyr called. He’s now worried. You’ll have to speak to him.”

Sansa’s eyes snapped open and she shoved the pillow off her head and sat up in the bed. “Does that mean what I think it means?” she asked.

He was smiling now, a soft sort of tender smile that did things to her even more now knowing what she knew. She unconsciously rubbed her thighs together. “What?” she demanded. “Why are you smiling?”

“Your hair is a fright,” he said with amusement. “It’s rather adorable.”

She moved back on the bed until she was propped up against the headboard. She kicked off the covers and began trying to finger-comb her hair. “Did you listen to the message?”

“He wants to know what is happening, and why he hasn’t heard from you.” He held out his phone to her and she took it slowly, as though this was a trick.

She looked at him searchingly. “Does this mean…?”

“That we’re partners? Yes.”

Relief stole over her. “Really?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes,” he whispered.

She couldn’t stop herself from gushing out her thanks in one long breath.

Jon merely nodded as he stood there, looking down at her like some kind of sentinel. Sansa bit her lip and gingerly patted the spot next to her on the bed. “Can you sit, please? You’re kind of making me nervous with the whole standing there all stoic and silent.”

He looked surprised by her request, and Sansa figured she knew why. Before this morning she probably wouldn’t have asked him to sit. But, she no longer felt he might have nefarious plans for her. Knowing what she knew now…

He wouldn’t hurt her. Ever.

He made her nervous for a whole new set of reasons instead, and that was troubling in and of itself. She couldn't get the image of how he'd reverently and yet passionately he'd touched her in all her lives. She couldn't forget how she felt the love and adoration pouring from him when they'd made love. Those particular memories made it difficult for her to really look him in the eye. 

He sat, looking just about as awkward as she felt. Slowly, she held out her hand. “We should shake on it,” she said. “Isn’t that what people usually do?”

Jon thankfully didn’t leave her hanging, and quickly took her hand. She ignored the jolt that went through her, the current of… _awareness_. “Your hand is cold,” she blurted out.

“Vampire,” he said.

“I know.” She pulled her hand back, aware that their shake went on a touch longer than necessary. She felt his eyes on her as she looked up missed calls on her phone. She smiled excitedly. “Margaery called!” 

“Quite a few times,” Jon said. “You should probably call her back.”

“I will,” Sansa said and looked up at him. “Okay, so you’re gonna let me go, right? I mean, I can’t stay here. If Father – if Petyr comes looking for me, and he will, I can’t be here.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“So…you’ll…let me go?”

He nodded.

“And when I call I’ll tell him that I’ve made contact with you, and we’re…getting closer – _I’m_ getting closer. That you’re starting to trust me.”

“So, the truth then. Sort of.”

“Yeah, sort of. It’s best with him to keep things simple. Overly complicated and too detailed and he’ll wonder what’s up.”

“What will you tell him about not having answered your phone?”

She bit her lip thoughtfully. “That I was with you and couldn’t? Not a lie.”

“Tell him I invited you to dinner and you fell asleep in my house.”

“Technically not a lie…”

“Exactly.”

Silence fell for a beat, and Sansa asked, “What’s wrong with you?” at the same time Jon asked, “How are you feeling?”

Sansa gestured for him to speak first with a wave of her hand. 

"How are you feeling?" he asked, looking her over intently. 

"I'm okay," she said in a small voice. 

"Do you have any questions?"

"Um, just one for now. Could I read Sansa's journal?"

"Your first life?"

She nodded. "It's where this all began, right?"

He looked at her so sadly, Sansa felt a twinge in her heart for him. She looked away. "So, uh, are you all right or...?"

"I'm all right," he said softly. He didn't sound all right though. He sounded rather defeated. He _looked_ beaten down. She wondered what had changed for him. For her...well, she couldn't even wrap her mind around all that had changed. It was just too much to grapple with. She needed some time to process all that she'd learned. The old adage that "the truth shall set you free" was indeed correct. She didn't feel quite so bogged down with guilt over her plan to escape with Mother - and look at that, she truly was her mother. Of sorts. 

However, the truth had also brought forth so _much_ other crap with it. The anger, betrayal, confusion, all these mixed up thoughts and feelings she had for Jon which had already been mixed up to begin with. She could admit now that she had never truly thought of him as her enemy. Not after they'd met anyway. 

She’d read once in one of Kinvara’s books on modern day witchcraft, that one’s DNA could hold the memories of their past lives and carry with them all the information of their ancestors. She’d thought that was crap then considering she remembered nothing. After meeting him though, there was just something about him that drew her in. Then she’d had those weird visions of him and of them. And, of course, she’d been attracted him which had intensified her resentment towards him. It still rankled how attractive she found him, and now with all that she knew…Gods. 

But she couldn’t dwell on that. There was too much to do, too much to plan. She had to keep her distance from Jon and keep him close only as much as she had to in order to help him discover Petyr’s plans and escape with Mother. 

“Will you have dinner with me?” he asked hopefully. “Before I set you free?”

“Sure,” she said. “But perhaps I should call him first.”

Jon nodded and gestured for her to proceed. “By all means.”

Now she was full of nerves for another reason. So much so that she started to shake. 

Jon noticed because of course he did. He noticed everything. “Sansa, love, are you afraid to call him?”

Any warmness she may have felt for Jon evaporated. She didn’t like being afraid, and she particularly didn’t like others knowing she was afraid. It was something Petyr would prey on like a shark looking for a drop of blood in the water. 

She shot Jon a glare to mask her apprehension and climbed out of the bed. “I’m fine,” she snapped. 

“It’s all right if you’re nervous to call him, Sansa. You are about to deceive him, and as much as it pains me to admit it, you did think he was your father…of sorts. I can…imagine that’s not easy.”

She looked down at him with a brow arched. “Just how difficult was that for you to say?”

“Pretty difficult, but I can’t pretend any longer that your experience has been something different. I knew it wasn’t, but I suppose I wanted to pretend that turning your back on him would be easy for you.”

“It’s not just him, Jon, it’s not just my very conflicted feelings about him as my father… it’s Mother. He warned me before I left that if I failed him, he would kill her and make me watch.”

Jon sucked in a breath and swore on the exhale. His jaw clenched and unclenched. “Bastard,” he muttered. He reached out and put his hands on her shoulders. She started at his touch and looked to each shoulder in surprise, and then at him. He dropped his hands and muttered an apology. “Sansa,” he said. “I’m going to do what I can to make sure nothing happens to her and that you are not in any way caught helping me, all right? We’ll come up with a plan, a way for you to get information to me without him catching on.”

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Um, maybe I should call him at the hotel later? I just feel like… he’ll know somehow and I can’t take that chance. You can listen if you want…I just don’t feel comfortable doing it here.”

Jon nodded. “I understand.” He nodded to the bathroom. “If you want to wash up, I’ll wait for you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured and went to do just that. 

Once in the bathroom, she splashed cool water on her face and wiped it clean. Her gaze drifted to her shoulders where Jon had touched her. Was that why her heart was racing?


	13. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter than I've done in the past for this story, but at this rate it'll be another month before I update. So, I thought something was better than nothing. Hopefully you agree.

Sansa was anxious though she attempted to hide it well. It was the bouncing of her leg up and down at the dinner table that gave her away more than once. Both times, she’d placed her hand on her thigh and once Jon had seen her pinch herself.

He wondered if it was her freedom she was looking forward to, or if it was strictly her fear of talking to Petyr that had her wound up. Perhaps a combination of both.

Conversation was stilted as a result, but Jon supposed that was also due to Melisandre's presence and perhaps the fact that Sansa was still processing all the information she'd received. She barely looked him in the eye, and when she did, he swore she blushed. 

After dinner, and before they left to take her back to the hotel, Jon presented her with a phone. "This is so you can contact me at any time," he told her. "Melisandre has used her magick to make it invisible to everyone but us."

"You could wave it in front of Littlefinger and he wouldn't even see it," Melisandre said before taking a sip of her wine. She sounded quite proud of herself. Looked it too. 

"I probably won't tempt fate by doing that," Sansa muttered. "But thanks."

Jon went over the code to get into the phone and Sansa arched a brow at him. "Your Sansa's birth year?"

"Don't say that as if--" He broke off and then nodded, jaw clenched tight. He glanced at Melisandre who arched a brow at him. "Yes."

Sansa's gaze darted between him and Melisandre, and then looked down at the phone and fiddled with it, her lips pursed. 

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he knew she'd sent him a text. He smirked at her as he dug it out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket and opened it up. His smirk fell with the three simple words she'd texted him: _I'm not her._

He wanted to shout at her that she was Sansa, _his_ Sansa, was _always_ his Sansa no matter _what_ incarnation she adopted, no matter the body she was given, no matter the gender too. But this Sansa was desperate for autonomy, and he could not be like Littlefinger and take away more of her identity by imposing what she felt was so foreign to her, onto her. 

But it killed him, just a little bit inside. Over the course of her other lives he'd often thought that having to start over with Sansa again and again was too hard. He just wanted to be able to show himself to her and have her just _know_ him and take him in her arms as though she'd been waiting for him as long as he'd been waiting for her. Other times, the dance of courting her was exciting and seeing different aspects of her brought forth and developed even more in each life was like getting to know her all over again.

But this Sansa challenged his notion that he ever truly knew each incarnation as someone completely separate from the Sansa who had been his wife. This Sansa seemed intent on dispelling the knowledge he'd gathered of her throughout the centuries and of who he thought she was. She was forcing him to see her as she was _now_ , separate from the other lifetimes they'd shared. It was hard. Every life she'd had did tend to run together at times and he was always able to see Sansa as the woman he'd first fallen in love with at the core of her. 

He saw now how that was an injustice. How _all_ of it had been an injustice. He'd never truly given Sansa the ability to live a life without him. From the moment she was of age, he'd inserted himself into her life and used what he knew of her to sway her into falling in love with him. And it had worked every time. 

But did he really _know_ her in all her incarnations as he claimed he did? And did she know _him_ \- did he even allow her to know him as he was each time? One couldn't be around as long as he had been and been through all he had without changing. But it wasn't as though he could share certain things with her, now could he? 

This Sansa though...she knew everything. Every nook and cranny in his head and his heart, and she wasn't doing what some small part of him had hoped she'd do: fall in love with him, swear to fight Littlefinger with him, and then vow to never leave him again. 

She was loyal to one person now, and it wasn't him. It was Catelyn. And wasn’t that just history repeating itself? He would have laughed if he didn’t feel like beating the shit out of something over it. His Sansa, the first Sansa, had been loyal to Catelyn to the point that she would only refer to him as her half-brother when their siblings just considered him one of the pack. She had all but ignored Jon as children to please her mother who hated him because he had been a reminder that her husband had been disloyal to her once. 

Of course, all of that was a lie. Jon had been their cousin, not their sibling, and it had all been a lie to to cover up his parentage so he wouldn’t be murdered by Robert Baratheon for being Rhaegar Targaryen’s son.

Sansa’s loyalty to her Mother in this life was not just to please Catelyn because she wanted to be a proper daughter and of course loved her, but it was apparent that her relationship with Catelyn was the healthiest one Sansa knew. She thought of only protecting Catelyn, and would help him insomuch as it would result in her freedom from Littlefinger, and then she was going to ride off with her mother and wash her hands of it all. It was...not easy to accept. But if he wanted to do right by her for once in his goddamn undead life, then he had to let her go when the time came. He had to let her go now, as a matter of fact. Had to pretend that not having her in his life while he could have her there wouldn't kill him. He could not and would not pressure her into anything. 

He had to let her be; had to let her figure out who she was on her own and without him trying to impose who she _was_ into who she was _now_. 

"We should go," he said and pushed away from the table. Though he hated the thought of her not being under his roof where he could protect her. He still didn't fully trust her either. 

"You know I'm kind of bummed that you got me a phone," she said as she stood and stuck it in her pocket. 

"Why?" he asked with a frown as he led her to the door. 

"I don't know, I was thinking you'd set me up with something cooler like a raven or a crystal ball with Melisandre as our middle man."

Jon shook his head and chuckled. "You have a bit of an active imagination, don't you?"

She looked at him thoughtfully. "Do I? I wouldn't really know."

For Jon, that simple statement spoke volumes. 

xxxxxxxx

When Jon and Sansa returned to the hotel, Jon carrying her garment bag over his shoulder, they were met by Robb and Margaery at the front desk. 

Sansa stopped abruptly at the sight of them and Jon knocked into her from behind. “Love, what are you doing?” he rumbled in her ear. 

She didn’t respond, just stared at Robb. Her brother. He looked just as he did in her first life with Jon. At the moment he looked angry as he spoke to the man behind the desk, and when he turned his head and saw her, relief flooded his face. “Sansa!”

Margaery turned then too and gasped, “Sansa!” They both rushed forward, Margaery engulfing Sansa in her arms. “We’ve been worried sick!” she exclaimed. 

Sansa looked over Margaery’s shoulder at Robb who was glaring at Jon. 

“I—I’m okay,” Sansa said, awkwardly hugging Margaery back. 

“You just disappeared on me!” Margaery said and pulled back. She looked Sansa over and then narrowed her eyes at Jon. “You said you were going to see him about a job I tried to call you, text…”

“What’s that over your shoulder?” Robb asked Jon, pointing at him. 

Jon twirled the garment bag off his shoulder and held it up. He said nothing, but then he didn’t need to. Both Robb and Margaery’s faces lit up with recognition and they glanced at each other. Robb ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck. Margaery’s mouth slid into sly smile. “Well well. I guess I don’t need to give this guy here too much of a hard time then, huh?” she said. 

Sansa blinked. What? What did she – 

Wait. Garment bags were for holding clothes. And she’d been gone for what – a day? Two days? It felt like a month –

And because she was with Jon currently they thought –

Oh. 

_Oh._

“No, I—” she started, but then Jon interrupted her by putting an arm around her shoulders and kissing her temple. “Don’t be shy, sweet girl,” he said with a grin and looked at Robb and Margaery. “If you don’t mind,” he continued, “We were just on our way up to Sansa’s room.”

Margaery grinned. “Of course, of course!” She beamed at Sansa. “Call me tomorrow, okay? Or come visit me at the shop. I’ll be there until five. If you’re not, uh, busy, maybe we could get dinner and you could tell me all about that business offer from Mr. uh…?”

Jon unwound his hand from around Sansa and extended his hand. “Jon Targaryen. No ‘Mister’ required.”

Margaery’s eyes went wide. “I thought you looked familiar! You’re the guy that practically owns this city!”

Jon’s laugh was smooth and sounded almost practiced, as though he got that a lot. Sansa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Marge, I think we should leave Sansa and Jon alone now,” Robb said, placing his hand on the small of his girlfriend’s back. 

Sansa looked at Robb, feeling her face stretch into longing. Jon pushed her forward gently and she glared at him. He ignored her and pointed to the elevator at the end of the lobby. 

“See you later, Sansa!” Margaery called out. “Enjoy your evening!”

Sansa looked over her shoulder and saw Robb pull Margaery in close and say something to her which caused Margaery to laugh loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls. 

“You looked at Robb as though he was your long lost lover,” Jon muttered as he pushed the button for the elevator. 

“I’ve never had a lover so I wouldn’t know about that either,” she retorted. “He’s my brother, Jon. I have a _brother_.”

Jon looked at her sadly and sighed. “I know.”

“And I can’t tell him.”

“No, you can’t. Not if you want to keep him safe. In fact, I would suggest you not engage in a friendship with either one of them if you want to keep them safe from Petyr and his machinations.”

The doors opened and Sansa’s jaw clenched. “I sincerely hope in my next life I no longer have a vampire or Father to deal with.”

“Are you saying you want me to die, Sansa?” Jon drawled as they stepped onto the elevator. 

“No,” she said as the doors closed. “I’m saying I want you to leave me the hell alone.”


	14. Thirteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to get back into the swing of this one...

No friends, Jon said. That was a bitter pill to swallow considering how much Sansa liked Margaery already. And it was obvious that Margaery liked her. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been worried about her. She’d been without friends, true friends, all her life. Now Jon was telling her it was better not to have them – and that included her brother. Her _brother._

She filtered through Jon’s memories trying to see who her birth parents were. The woman she didn’t recognize, but the father she did. He looked like Ned Stark, First Sansa’s father. Yet, a bit different— younger, and not so severe. His hair was shorter, too. Granted, that had been quite a long time ago that Jon had seen him though.

“What’s happened to my parents?” she asked him when the elevator dinged open. “Do you know?”

“Your father is alive,” Jon murmured as he stepped off the elevator. “He lives here in Winterfell. Your mother in this life…she died.”

“How?” Sansa asked, right on his heels to hear his answer.

He stopped abruptly and she nearly knocked into him. He turned and faced her, looking grim. “Your parents split after a long and exhaustive search for you. She moved away to live with her sister and after a life of hard living, she died of a heart attack.”

“Hard living?” Sansa asked, taking a step closer to him.

Jon inhaled deeply as he gazed down at her. “Recreational drugs and alcohol.”

She pursed her lips together and narrowed her eyes. “Makes one think, doesn’t it, about how cruel it is to play with people’s lives?”

Sansa walked past him to her door and used the key card to let herself in.

“You do enjoy taking me to task don’t you?” Jon said as he entered the room behind her.

“I think you’ve gone quite a long time without thinking about your actions, don’t you?”

“Sansa, I don’t tell you to stop being friends with Margaery and Robb to be cruel or to tell you what to do. I am advising you to keep your distance. If you care for them, you’ll not want to see them hurt by Petyr. What do you think will happen once he’s here? From what I gather, you didn’t have friends because of him. How do you think he’ll react to them in your life?”

He had a valid point, and in her eagerness to have her brother and her friend, she had forgotten about that part. 

"All the more reason to get away from all this I guess," she said. It was cruel to remind him that she wasn't planning on sticking around. The pained look on his face told her as much, but she couldn't seem to stop herself from doing it. Probably because she was angry. Angry and hurt by all that she'd been robbed off by both Jon and Petyr. And not just in this life; she was finding anger for all her other lives and how different they call could have been had Jon Targaryen and Petyr Baelish just left her alone. In one life, she was studying to be a nurse. And, well, she'd died by Petyr's hands before that could have happened. 

"Are you going to make the call now?" Jon asked. Now he sounded irritated with her. Good. She liked it better when they sniped at each other. It made it a lot easier for her to keep her distance from him that way.

The fear she felt about calling Petyr came back, and she could practically feel her shoulders going up to her ears. If she was honest with herself, it had always been this way, but now it felt worse somehow. Maybe the time away from him had put her guard down a bit despite Jon kidnapping her away to his mansion. 

Having her guard down was not a good idea. Especially not when it came to Petyr. With Jon...well, it wasn't a good idea with him either, though for different reasons. Reasons she would not think about thank-you-very-much. 

"One day I hope you'll tell me about everything he's done to you," Jon murmured. 

"I'm fine," she snapped and turned her back on him as she fumbled with her phone to call Petyr. 

Her breath caught and held as it rang and she wondered - would Petyr be able to hear it race over the phone. No doubt Jon could hear it right now. But, she couldn't focus on that. She could only focus on this moment; this phone call. 

"Where the hell have you been?" Petyr answered, hissing into the phone and causing Sansa to shake. 

"I--I was with him, Father," she said, reminding herself to sound submissive. 

"With him?" His curiosity was piqued. "What does that mean?"

"I went to his mansion for dinner and ended up staying the night. We didn't - I didn't do anything with him, I just let him talk. I ended up falling asleep."

Silence. Then, "You went to his mansion. He talked. You fell asleep. You didn't let him fuck you?"

Sansa winced, and she heard Jon move behind her. She dared not look at him. "Of course not, Father! Why would I let him touch me after what he's done to us?"

"Did he _try_?"

"No, Father."

"Does he trust you, Sansa? What did he tell you?"

"He said all the things you warned me about. How you're the one who killed me in all my lifetimes and all he's done was try to love and protect me. He tried to turn me against you, Father."

"And it didn't work?"

"Of course not!"

She was aware that she sounded a bit hysterical and it made her nervous. He was going to see through her. He was going to know and he was going to kill Mother. Tears started to gather in her eyes. What would she do without Mother? Where would she go? Would she stay and fight alongside Jon? Or would she still take off?

Probably still take off. She just didn't have it in her to fight anymore - even if she knew that on some level there was still a fight ahead of her before all was said and done. 

"How do you feel about him, Sansa?" Petyr asked. He was looking for a lie. 

After all she'd done, after all he'd put her through, he had never really trusted her. She constantly had to prove herself to him, and even though she was working against him this time, it still made her feel pathetic. She never felt good enough, never felt as though she tried or worked hard enough for him. 

"I hate him," she whispered. "He's a liar. He's everything you said he was - he lies so smoothly and sweetly."

"Sweetly, eh?"

She nodded even though he couldn't see her. "He turns a pretty tale."

"And you still love me, my darling?" he cooed. It made her skin crawl. 

"Yes, Father. You've done everything for me, you've sacrificed so much for me - do you think I'd fall for his lies so easily?"

"I would hope you wouldn't," he murmured. "It's hard not being there with you."

"I know. It's hard for me too. When will you come?"

"A week. Give me a week."

"Will you bring Mother?"

"Of course," he huffed. "Is it me you love the most or her?"

"You."

"Good good. Remember that. Can you be a good girl for me until I get there? Keep Targaryen close so that when I come you can draw him in and kill him? We'll make a plan then, a real plan to kill him. All right, my darling?"

"Yes, Father."

"Remember to practice your training. You need to stay sharp and strong."

"Yes, Father."

"I will call you tomorrow evening. Be ready."

"Of course, Father."

"Now tell me you love me."

"I love you, Father," she said dutifully. She'd said it a million times before, and had on varying levels meant them. Tonight, the words fell from her mouth and she wanted to stuff them back in. After what she'd seen through Jon's memories, after what she now knew...The reason why she was never good enough for Father because he didn't really love her. He never had. She would never amount to what it was he wanted from her. She was nothing more than a pawn, his ultimate revenge on Jon. He made her tell him she loved him because if she said the words then she couldn't turn on him. He was her father - how could not love him? But he'd never done anything to earn her love. Only Mother had. And she loved no one but Mother, and _would_ love no one but Mother from now on. 

"Goodnight, sweetling," he said and hung up. 

Sansa ended the call, checking a half a dozen times that the call was actually ended. It was hard to do through tears. 

"Sansa, look at me, please," Jon said softly behind her. 

"No."

"Please?"

She tilted her head back, looking up at the ceiling. "You think you'll get what you want just because you say please?"

"I'm sorry."

She whipped around now to face him. "Really? You're sorry? For what exactly, Jon? For stealing my life - wait, no - lives? Is that what you're sorry for?"

He nodded. "Yes."

Her eyes narrowed. "Are you sorry? Or do you feel sorry for me? There is a difference."

He heaved a sigh. "You test me."

"You feel sorry for me," she said dully. "You're not actually sorry for what you've done, are you?"

"I am," he said, and the emotion was clear in his voice as he looked at her. "I am sorry. I...I was selfish. I only saw what I wanted and didn't think about what you wanted. I am sorry for that, Sansa. I made what I wanted what you wanted too."

"Well, we can start now with doing what I want. I want you to leave now."

He nodded, looking down. "Very well then. I, uh, I just have one request of you."

"Yes?"

"I want you to come by tomorrow and meet a few people you might interact with from here on out."

"Part of your army?" she asked sarcastically. 

"Exactly."

"Fine," she said and folded her arms across her chest. "What time?"

"Whenever you want. Just let me know when you're heading over."

She nodded. She realized she was probably acting childish but..she...kind of didn't care. She'd had a lot to take in, and a lot to realize over the past couple days. Her entire world had been turned upside down and she was angry and sad and worried. Three emotions she didn't handle well at all, mainly because while Petyr engendered those emotions in her, he didn't accept them and therefore expected her not to. 

Jon looked at her as though he wanted to say more. She looked away from him; she couldn't stand the look on his face. The worry and the sadness she saw there. 

"Goodnight, Sansa," he said softly and shuffled out the door. 

When the door closed, Sansa sat down on the bed and cried.


	15. Fourteen

**Flashback**

_Jon looked over at Sansa as he undressed and found his wife with a smirk on her lovely face, watching every move he made. “You enjoying yourself?” he asked._

_“Very much so,” she said primly and stretched out on her side. She dug her elbow into the bed and propped her head up on her hand. “Please, go on.”_

_Jon laughed and finished undressing. When he was left in just his smallclothes, he looked over at Sansa and arched a brow in question. She nodded. With a grin, he discarded them as well and then practically jumped into bed. He pulled Sansa up against him and then rolled onto his back and pulled her over him. She squealed with delight and he helped adjust her so that she was straddling him, her night rail bunched up to her thighs._

_“I’m to be naked as my nameday and you get to wear that?” he teased, fingering her nightrail._

_“But of course. You always do as your Queen wishes.”_

_He laughed. “And when do we get to my Queen doing what her King wishes?”_

_She smiled knowingly and then leaned down and kissed him softly. Jon groaned into the kiss and held her tighter against him. “This is the best part of my day,” he sighed._

_She giggled. “I suppose I can guess why.”_

_Jon shook his head and rolled them so that Sansa was on her back and he was on top, resting between her legs. “No, sweet girl. This is my favorite part of the day because we get to be alone. We’re not being pulled this way and that. We catch up on all that’s happened through the day and make plans for what needs to be done. When we were reunited at Castle Black, this is what we did every night, Sansa. We talked. We laughed. We made plans. I came to cherish this time with you.”_

_She smiled and cradled the side of his face. Jon nuzzled into her palm. “You sweet man,” she murmured. “I love you.”_

_“I love you more,” he whispered and bent his head to kiss her._

**End Flashback**

Tears dropped from Jon’s eyes as he sat at the end of his bed. He’d returned home a little while ago after leaving Sansa at the hotel. He hated leaving her there. He hated leaving her period. 

His traitorous mind couldn’t stop itself from going over the good times he and Sansa had had before he’d gone off to the fight the White Walkers. They had been through so much before they’d actually gotten together: they had defeated Ramsay and taken back Winterfell, fell in love and grappled with the fact that they were half brother and sister still, dealt with the Dragon Queen, then the truth of his birth, and the return of Arya and her displeasure of their union. 

They’d made plans for their future. For the future of the children they planned to have. 

They’d been so happy, but for too short a time. And wasn’t that the way happiness worked? Misery felt as though it lasted a lifetime; happiness felt as though lasted but a moment, an afternoon, or a night. 

Now he fell into the rabbit hole he so often fell into of thinking: if he had been there with Sansa when she’d given birth, would she have survived? He wouldn’t have been able to do much, but he couldn’t stop himself from wondering if the outcome would have been different just the same. 

He’d been broken, bloody, and hurt after the fight with the White Walkers. Dany, his aunt, had died, and so had her dragons, but she’d died for her people and it hadn’t been in vain. They’d been free then. One rather large and menacing enemy had been defeated, the Wall had collapsed, and Jon remembered how eager he’d been even in his exhaustion to return home to Sansa. He’d had enough of fighting for a while at that point, but now he felt that maybe, just maybe he could rest. He could focus on building that life he and Sansa had talked about. 

He’d barely been off the battle field when he’d received word that Sansa and their child had died. He’d refused to believe it. It was a trick; someone was playing a trick on him. No doubt Baelish, hoping he’d run himself through with a sword at the news so he’d have a chance to swoop in on Sansa. 

He’d pushed himself and his remaining men home to Winterfell despite their exhaustion and protests. 

Arya had been the one to greet him when he’d all but collapsed through the castle gates. Still, Jon would not believe Sansa had gone. She was resting, tending to their babe, she didn’t know they’d arrived and so she was somewhere doing something that kept her from being there to greet him. He’d refused to accept the truth even as Arya looked at him with tears streaming down her face. 

“Take me to her,” he’d said, his voice hoarse from the moment of despair when he’d screamed out his anguish. 

Sansa and their babe had been laid out for him on a spare table in the Great Hall. They’d dressed her, cleaned her up, and gave their babe something to wear. 

His legs had given out beside her. He’d fallen to his knees and sobbed his heart out. 

He locked himself in the Great Hall for three days. 

He’d had to be pulled away from her body by Lyanna Mormont’s surviving soldiers. He hadn’t gone willingly. He’d screamed and shouted and threatened to kill the lot of them. 

He’d then fallen ill and was taken to bed. He’d prayed for death. 

When he came to, but just barely, Melisandre was there with a man he didn’t know. A man with dark hair and pale skin. They’d told him a wild story about beings who walked the Earth as though they were alive, but they were not. They were dead. They drank blood to survive. The man, the vampire, called himself The Stranger. It was supposed to be funny. Jon didn’t find it so. 

“Get the fuck out of my room!” Jon had bellowed at them both. “I just fought a battle with the undead. You want me to fight more?! I’ve already lost enough. Leave me to die. I just want to die.”

“You are not meant to die, Jon,” Melisandre had said in her aggravatingly calm way. “You are meant for great things.”

“I’ve done my great thing,” he’d muttered. “Now I’m done. I’ve lost my wife and my child.” He’d been dangerously close to tears again, feeling despair creep back in now that he was awake. “I just want to join them.”

“Do you believe that we can be reborn again, Jon?” Melisandre had asked. 

Jon had looked at her as though she was mad. She’d then gone to explain about reincarnation. About seeing Sansa again. 

The only caveats being he’d be a vampire and she’d be someone else. And, of course, she wouldn’t know him. 

“But you can be with her again,” Melisandre had told him. “Again and again and again, each time she is born again, you can be with her.”

Mad with grief and the possibility of being reunited with Sansa again, he’d agreed. 

He hadn’t been prepared for how long it would take for her to return, and how it felt like eons before she was at the appropriate age for him to show himself to her. He’d watched her, too. He’d watched her grow up, searching for signs of his Sansa in this new Sansa. There had been some differences, and there had been quite a few similarities. Over the years he would learn how the core of a person didn’t change much, but different factors led to some differences. He also learned that people tended to reincarnate into groups. In one life, Robb was her father. In another life, Arya was what was now called a “frenemy”. In another life, Ned Stark was her brother. 

The other bit that he’d learned? How hard it was to have a Sansa that didn’t know him at all in each life, and how he would have to begin the process all over again of meeting her again and again as though it was his first time doing such a thing. 

And then, of course, there was Baelish to deal with. 

Jon heaved a sigh and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. He was tired. So goddamned tired. After centuries of fighting Baelish, of just wanting to love Sansa, he was exhausted from the effort. With all his best laid plans for this incarnation of Sansa, he had been thwarted in the worst possible way and presented with a Sansa hated him. Now she… well, pretty much still hated him. Maybe now after she saw his memories through his eyes she tolerated him. But just barely. 

He looked up at the sword on his wall. Longclaw. His trusty sword. Next to it was Heartsbane. Two swords made of Valryain steel. He would give Sansa Heartsbane. 

The White Walkers could only be defeated by Valyrian steel, fire, and Dragonglass. He had both. He’d gone on a search while he waited for Sansa to return to him, and had snatched up every bit of Valyrian steel and Dragonglass he could find. It wasn’t so much that he feared the return of the White Walkers, but a man had to be prepared for what was to come, and there were too many things out there in the world that he simply did not understand. Him being one of them. 

Sansa might not have the desire to fight the White Walkers, but she might end up not having a choice before all was said and done. Jon meant to make sure she was prepared for any contingency, and that meant having a weapon that she could use to strike down a White Walker where it stood. 

Jon moved back onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling in the dim light. A few remaining tears raced down to the pillow under him. 

When Sansa left him, and Baelish was defeated once and for all, Jon planned to die. He’d have to find someone to do it for him, because he knew Melisandre wouldn’t stake him. 

He didn’t want to cause Sansa any more misery. He had no right to intrude on her lives any longer. So he wouldn’t. All that he could hope for was that the Gods would take pity on him, perhaps grant him some mercy, and allow him to reincarnate with her. 

Not that he’d know if he did he supposed. But he liked to that his soul and hers would know each other, and that no matter what they’d find each other again.

xxxxxx

Sansa was anxious. She felt restless with nervous energy and she found herself feeling rather jumpy. She had meant to settle in last night and read the first Sansa’s journal, but she hadn’t been able to concentrate after Jon had left. 

Her conversation with Petyr had left her anxiety-ridden. She’d convinced herself he knew everything and was planning on Mother’s demise and her own. She felt as though she’d wanted to do something, but she had no idea what. 

There really wasn’t anything for her to do was there? All she could do was sit and wait for Petyr to come. 

God, she wasn’t sure she was going to survive this. Petyr had prepared her to deal with every contingency concerning Jon. No one had prepared her for being an enemy of Petyr’s. And that’s what she was now, wasn’t it? 

She sent a message to Jon fairly early that she was planning on coming over. Maybe if she could verbally spar with him a bit that would take the edge off. He told her to wear something she could work out in. She frowned. He wanted to work out? Okay fine. It wasn’t as though she didn’t have a bundle full of energy to spare. 

He also wanted to send a car to pick her up. She said no. She’d walk. 

When she arrived at the gate, it opened as though he’d been lying in wait for her. She walked up to the house and was greeted by the same red-haired man that had greeted her at Jon’s office. 

Jon appeared before she could even step out of the foyer. He wore loose black pants and a white t-shirt. She could see his abs through the thin material of his shirt and she quickly averted her eyes and stuck her hands in the pockets of her hoodie. 

Jon smiled at her as he came up beside her and placed his hand in the middle of her back between her shoulder blades. “Sansa, I’d like you to meet Tormund. He’s my right-hand man, and he’s a vampire as well. Tormund, this is Sansa. She’s one of us, and she’s to be protected at all costs.”

“I don’t need protecting,” Sansa bristled. 

“Yes, you do,” Jon said simply. 

Tormund smiled toothily at her and extended a hand. “Everyone needs protecting at some point, lass.”

Sansa took his hand begrudgingly and shook it. His grip was strong and she felt as though she had to match it. He chuckled to himself and looked at Jon with a wink. “A spitfire, this one.”

“I know,” Jon said dryly and pushed Sansa forward gently. “Come with me.”

He led her down the hall and past a few rooms that had Sansa peering into as they passed, to check out the décor. Everything here felt like a museum. But a museum where you could touch stuff. 

Finally, at the end of the hall, he led her into a room that looked, essentially like one of Petyr’s training rooms. There were weapons on the walls and the floor was wall to wall with a training mat. There were big windows overlooking his expansive backyard and sunlight streamed in. 

She assumed the people in the room who were lined up in workout clothes the same as Jon were vampires, and yet none of them were at all affected by the sunlight. _Impressive magick,_ she thought. 

“Sansa, this is Brienne, Edd, Grenn, and Meera,” Jon said as he pointed at them one by one. 

“I’m never going to remember all that,” she muttered and Edd chuckled. She shot him a small grateful smile.

“Sansa is part of us,” Jon said, his speech reminiscent of what he’d said to Tormund. 

“What does that even mean?” she asked on sigh. 

Jon looked over at her. “It means that you are with us, not against us.”

“Isn’t the fact that I’m here evidence of that?”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed. “Someone is in a mood.”

She gestured to the weapons on the wall. “Are we going to spar? Is that the plan?”

He nodded. “It is.”

“Good. Let’s get to it then. I’ve been looking forward to kicking your ass.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is longer, but it would have been a behemouth had I added in the sparring session. That's next.


	16. Fifteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Lemoncake_Chioni, this is for you. You made me realize how it's been almost a month since I updated, and I started to feel guilty. Plus, your story is so fantastic that you inspired me. :)

Aside from Brienne, Jon had never met a woman who came alive at the sight of weapons. Sansa stood before the broad axe on the wall and practically salivated. "Would you like to touch it?" he asked. 

"I don't want to touch it," she told him and reached for it. "I want to use it."

"Not while we're sparring," he said. 

She smirked. "Don't trust me?" 

"You're bloodthirsty. So, no."

She shrugged, pulling her hand off the weapon and faced him. "Another time then."

"I do want you to become acquainted with the weapons I have. In particular, one I have specifically for you."

She looked at him in surprise. "You have a weapon for me?"  
He nodded. "It's a sword. It's called Heartsbane, and it's made of Valryian Steel. It is the only thing aside from Dragonglass that can destroy a White Walker. You say you don't want to fight them, but you might not have a choice. I want you to be prepared."

"Valryian...Dragonglass?"

Jon smiled. "I've much to teach you."

She sighed. "You can give me a history lesson later, old man. I want to fight now."

He smiled; he couldn't help it. Despite the fact that she had been looking forward to having a go at him, she was still so goddamn adorable in her eagerness. "Tell me, did Petyr fight you?"

Sansa nodded. "Of course."

Jon's jaw clenched at that. "Did he hit you full force? With all his vampire strength?"

"He held back some."

"Some," Jon repeated. 

"It depended on what we were doing. If he thought a blow might bash my skull in, he obviously didn't do that. But, he also had plenty of others train me, so he didn't do it often. He just watched. And told me all the ways I did everything wrong."

"I really hope I get the chance to kill him this time," Jon muttered. He didn't miss Sansa's wince. It would take some time, he imagined, for her to throw off any lingering affection for Petyr. It was understandable, despite how much it rankled. He was all that Sansa knew; she'd believed him to be her father for so long that she still had difficulty calling him by name. Every time she called him anything other than "Father" it was as though she'd sucked on a lemon. Her expression would twist into distaste. 

Jon led her to the middle of the room. "I figure we can start slow with a few--oof!"

She swept his feet right out from under him. He lay on the mat with her smirking down at him. 

Brienne and Tormund came barreling over, concern etched on their faces despite the fact that this was absolutely nothing on the pain scale when it came to a vampire. They knew that. But he was their Maker. Their Master. They had loyalties. 

"Oi! Maybe you want to relax a bit, girl," Tormund. He wasn't growly yet, but he was close. It was clear he didn't like Sansa's rough treatment of his Master. 

"It's all right, Tormund," Jon assured him. 

Brienne's blue eyes narrowed into slits as she eyed Sansa skeptically. Sansa caught her glaring and glared back. "How do you want to proceed?" Sansa asked, staring Brienne down. She folded her arms across her chest. "I imagine you want to see what I'm made of. So how about you come at me, give me your best shot."

"Sansa, no," Jon said, getting to his feet. "I thought we could start small at first."

"Don't want to," she said, looking from Brienne to Tormund. She backed away and waved her hands in a "come here" gesture. "It's obvious they want to charge, especially the blond, so let them."

Tormund and Brienne looked to Jon for guidance. Jon sighed. On the one hand, Sansa was clearly ready to blow off the anxious energy he'd felt coming off of her in waves since she'd arrived, and she was eager to show off what she could do. On the other hand, he didn't want her hurt. However, if she was knocked down a peg or two then perhaps she'd ease up and calm the fuck down. 

"Do not hurt her," Jon said warningly, soft enough so that Sansa could not hear but the two vampires could. They gave a slight imperceptible nod that he was certain only he saw. 

He moved out of the way, feeling battle ready himself. If it looked like Sansa needed help, he was going to jump into the fray and do just that. His stomach twisted thinking of her getting hurt in any way and he hoped that Brienne, his tall, blond warrior who had been with him in another life, did not do anything rash in her defense of him. 

Tormund lunged forward first and Jon had to hold himself back from jumping in front of Sansa. Tormund was large and when he was in a mood, he could pull off menacing quite well. And he was definitely in a mood. 

Sansa was ready for him though. Tormund leapt in the air, showing off his ability to go airborne with his vampire gifts, and prepared to strike her down with a kick. Sansa ran under him. He missed, but landed on his feet anyway just like a cat. He spun, his arm out and ready to hit her but Sansa caught it and used the momentum of his swing to twist him around to the floor. With Tormund on the floor, Brienne saw her opening and grabbed Sansa from behind. Jon started to shout at Brienne to let her go when Sansa elbowed Brienne in the stomach and came down hard on Brienne's foot with her own. Brienne's grip loosened and Sansa used that opening to spin around. 

Brienne then hit Sansa across the face with her arm, snapping Sansa's head to the side. 

"That's enough!" Jon shouted, lurching forward. "Stop!"

Brienne stopped, putting her hands in the air in surrender. Sansa didn't stop, though. Instead, she lunged at Brienne from the middle and tackled her to the mat. Jon came over and hefted Sansa up by her middle. She was light as a feather, but he could feel the strength in her. Her blood was up, that much was certain. She smelled...potent. 

Reaching behind her, she scratched him across the face, emitting a growl. Jon let her go and she spun, her arm up and ready to catch him in the face. With a growl, he instead tackled her to the mat, pinning her arms to it. 

Her mouth was parted as she panted, her chest rising and falling rapidly. It made Jon quite aware of her breasts under that shirt. Then there was her hair, falling out of her ponytail, strands of it spread out on the mat like a halo. Her eyes, like blue fire, gleamed up at him. And the pulse in her neck beat like the wings of a frantic bird trying to escape. His eyes dropped to her pink little mouth, and then up to her eyes. She stared at him, not saying a word, and when her gaze dropped to _his_ mouth and she licked her lips, Jon groaned, no longer aware than anyone but he and Sansa were in the room. 

That’s when he caught it. The scent of her arousal. This was _turning her on._

He started to bend his head, intent on tasting her. God, it had been so long and he was _starving_ for her. The scent of her arousal was making him dizzy with want and need. 

But then her eyes went wide and she pushed at him shouting, "What are you _doing?!_ "

Jon pushed away from her and sprang to his feet. Frustrated and angry - though he wasn't sure at who anymore, himself or her or Petyr, or the whole goddamn fucking world, Jon stormed out of the room. 

xxxxxxx

Sansa sat up and ignored the glares Tormund, Brienne, and the other vampires in the room sent her way. 

Her heart was thudding hard in her chest and she sincerely hoped they thought it was from exertion and not because she had been turned on in that very brief sparring with Jon. Or maybe she wasn't as twisted as that and it was instead the way he looked down at her, his gaze hot and hungry, the lower half of him pressing her into the mat while his hands pressed her arms into it. She shouldn't like that, the vulnerability of that position, but there had been something about it that had sparked something deep inside her. 

Or not so deep as the case may be since she was in fact attracted to him. Much to her chagrin. 

Melisandre came waltzing in at that moment in a flurry of black and red and marched over to where Sansa was. "Jon wished for me to fetch you." She sounded pissed. Just what had he said to her? That she'd denied his kiss?

What did he expect? That she'd make out with him right here on the mat with his "kids" around? That she'd made out with him at _all_? 

"Are you coming or no?" Melisandre asked in a clipped tone. 

"I'm coming," she muttered and got to her feet, practically running to keep up with Melisandre. 

In the hall, Melisandre stopped abruptly and Sansa nearly knocked into her. The other woman spun and glared down at her. "Jon wants to feed you. He thinks you're too skinny."

Sansa blinked, not sure what she was supposed to make of that. "Oh - well, that's not necessary--"

"He'd be most displeased if he knew you had left without eating."

"Where is His Highness right now? Off pouting somewhere?"

Melisandre's mouth twitched and Sansa thought she actually might be trying to smile. Or she was about to have a stroke. Could an immortal have one of those? "I've heard you say that exact same thing before," she said. 

"Interesting. So, where is he...?"

"He is in his study. Pouting."

Sansa's own mouth now twitched. "May I see him?"

"Lunch--"

"Bring it to the study."

"You wish to dine with him."

"I wish to tell him to stop being such a Pouty Pants just because he doesn't get what he wants."

Melisandre just arched a brow and led her down another hallway. God, this place was enormous. Would she ever learn her way around?

 _You don't need to learn your way around,_ she thought quickly. 

Melisandre pushed open a door and stepped aside, giving Sansa enough room to enter. Upon entering, Sansa almost forgot what she was there for as she took it all in. Jon’s study was huge - as were all the rooms in the mansion. There were bookshelves from floor to ceiling and all filled. There was a giant fireplace along one wall, and the desk Jon sat behind was enormous, long, and made of mahogany, as were the random chairs set about the room. The ornate woodwork at the edges of the walls and on Jon’s desk caught Sansa's eyes and she longed to run her fingers over the intricate designs. 

"I do not wish to be—" Jon started and then stopped at the sight of Sansa. 

Sansa turned to thank Melisandre for escorting her to Jon, but the woman was just shutting the door. 

"Is there something you want?" Jon asked tersely. 

She looked back at him and said matter-of-factly, "Stop acting like a kicked puppy."

"I am not—"

"No? You just stormed out of the training room like the hounds of hell were nipping at your heels, and then you came in here to pout after sending Melisandre in to get me for lunch."

Jon rubbed his forehead, looking agitated. "Sansa..."

She lifted her chin and averted her eyes. "You wanted to kiss me."

"I always want to kiss you," he rasped. "It's my bloody lot in life to want you even when you don't want me back."

"That's not my problem," she said. "And you make it seem like it is my problem when you act like a child when I don't give in to what you want."

He sighed heavily. "You're right."

She looked at him. "Come again?"

"You're right," he said again. "I'm sorry. I'm not...I'm trying to adjust here, Sansa."

"Try harder."

"You wanted to kiss me," he said. 

He wasn't supposed to say that. He wasn't supposed to actually call attention to it. 

She wrapped her arms around herself. "No—"

"You were aroused, Sansa. I could smell you."

"Okay, that smelling thing is gross.”

He shrugged. "Doesn't change the facts, does it?"

“It’s a bit of a violation don’t you think?”

“I can’t control it. It’s my nose.”

“Your freaky vampire nose.”

“Still my nose.” He cocked his head to the side. “Fighting me turned you on.”

He was like a dog with a bone. 

“Where’s my lunch?” she asked, casting a desperate look toward the door. 

When she felt a breeze, she wasn’t too surprised to find he’s used his vampire speed to plant himself right in front of her. He was so close all she had to do was just lean in slightly and they’d be touching. He was staring at her intently, and it sounded like perhaps he was filling his lungs with her. 

Not wanting to show him that he made her nervous – and not because she thought he would hurt her or even force himself on her, but because he made her _feel things_ – she looked up at him, right in the face.

He reached out and her gut clenched, anticipating his touch. Gently, his fingertips touched the top of her cheek. She winced. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked softly. 

“Stings a little. She was holding back. I’ve had worse.”

A thundercloud passed over his features and his jaw clenched. 

“Can you admit it? Fighting me turned you on.” His voice was voice a low rumble as he now ran the tips of those fingers along her arm. She felt the gooseflesh rise. 

“I didn’t even get a proper go at you,” she said, hoping her voice sounded steady and not all unsteady like she felt. 

He smirked. “Do you want a proper go at me?”

“I have thought extensively about punching you in the face.”

“Did you know that there are some people that like a little pain with their pleasure, Sansa?”

He was even closer now. She felt a cold sweat break out. “Yeah, it’s called BDSM, Jon. Everyone knows what that is. Even sheltered me.”

“I think you might get off on a little sadism.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What game is this?” she asked quietly. 

His gaze burned into her, making her skin feel tight and her breath become shallow. “Admit it. You’re attracted to me. You wanted to kiss me.”

“Let’s say I did,” she murmured and then took a giant step back. “It doesn’t change anything.”

There was a knock at the door then and Sansa practically ran to answer it. Jon watched her, a smile curving his full lips as he thought, _It changes everything, Sansa._


	17. Sixteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this was just....it was a pain in my ass. LOL. I felt like it took FOREVER so I hope everything makes sense and honestly, I'm so sick of it that i don't even care anymore if it doesn't lol.

_Jon is the husband father promised me. He is brave, gentle, and strong. He is the King in the North, and I am now his Queen._

_He dotes on me in a way I am not used to. He is constantly worried about me, and always wanting to ensure that I am happy and well._

_I’ve told him the story in its entirety of all that happened in King’s Landing, and now I will put it to paper._

Sansa closed the diary and leaned back against her bed. She was still buzzing from that afternoon and if she was honest with herself, a part of her was afraid to read the diary of the woman she’d been. Of the woman that had captured Jon Targaryen so entirely that he’d become a vampire and stalked her through all her lives.

At first, she had been curious. It was hard not to be after seeing The First Sansa through his eyes, feeling his love for her completely engulfing her and pulling her under. It had felt suffocating. It had also made her feel, well, loved. Even if it wasn’t for her per se, but for another Sansa in another time. No one but Mother had ever loved her, and Mother’s love came with restrictions because of Petyr and all his rules.

Jon’s love was wild and untamed. There were no restrictions to it. It burned and it had the power to consume. So what did it mean that she wanted to get closer to it? That she wanted to touch it just a little bit and see what it could do to her? Fire had the power to transform too, didn’t it?

She glanced at the journal. She wasn’t that Sansa. She was never going to be that Sansa, so why did she need to read her diary? What would it change?

Absolutely nothing.

Her phone buzzing caught her attention and she reached over and grabbed it off her nightstand. She smiled when she saw it was Margaery: _Hey, you busy? Wanna come out for a drink with me? I’m dying to hear about Jon Targaryen!_

Her smile fell a bit at the mention of Jon. She didn’t want to talk about Jon. She’d had it _up to here_ with Jon.

And she was due to see him tomorrow again. Jon wanted to show her Heartsbane and have her spar with him and his own sword. Sansa suspected he was just trying to draw out their time together for as long as possible because there was really no reason why he couldn’t have just shown her Heartsbane that day.

But Margaery was her friend, right? So maybe Margaery could help her figure a few things out. That’s what friends did, right? It was what they did on TV.

She texted Margaery back: _Sure. Where?_

xxxxxxx

They met in a pub downtown, a place called The Eyrie. It was dark and intimate inside, and some people sat at the bar and drank while others at dinner in booths along the walls.

Margaery managed to secure for them a table in the corner, and Sansa felt like a grown up as she slid into the wooden booth with her friend. She felt like she was part of _life_ , part of all the things that she’d missed out on. She was overjoyed while simultaneously feeling completely out of her element.

She glanced around the room, at all the people chatting, laughing, and generally having a good time and she felt a crushing sadness envelope her. What she wouldn’t give to be normal. 

“So, tell me,” Margaery said, her blue eyes sparkling with delight. “What is Jon Targaryen like in the sack?”

Sansa felt her face flame red. If she had been drinking her beer, she would have choked on it. “I didn’t – Margaery, I didn’t sleep with him.”

Margaery’s smile fell. “Oh. Then why did he…? I mean he insinuated that you had.”

“He wishes we had.”

Now her friend narrowed her eyes. “Is he pressuring you, Sansa? Did he keep you prisoner at his house?”

“No.” _Yes_. “Jon and I have…a history.”

“Oh. I thought you were new here…?

“I am. I’ve met him on some travels.” If one counted other lives as travels then this wasn’t a lie.

Margaery leaned forward. “Do tell.”

Sansa sipped her beer in an effort to stall and gather her thoughts. “All right, so, we’ve met a few times. Quite a few, actually, and something holds me back. I know he wants me. I know he has feelings for me, but I haven’t been able to give in.”

“Why not? I mean, you have seen him, right?”

Sansa nodded slowly. Finding Jon attractive wasn’t the problem. Or it was, actually, considering how her body reacted to him.

“It’s just that I know he’s the type to want a…lifelong commitment and I can’t really commit to something like that.”

Margaery nodded, looking as though she understood completely. “I get that; I really do. I wasn’t sure I could commit to Robb in all honesty.”

Sansa felt a rush of protectiveness for her brother at the point. “Oh?”

Margaery shrugged. “I never thought I wanted to be with just one person. I like variety.” She smiled. “But Robb is just too amazing and I don’t want anyone but him.”

Sansa smiled at that and turned her beer bottle on the table, staring at the ring of water the condensation from the bottle left on the table. “So my problem is that Jon is like…he’s like a flame. And I’m the moth. I find I want to get near that light, but I’m afraid to get singed. I’m afraid to get consumed. It’s like…I want just a taste, but not the whole thing.”

Margaery grinned. “Sounds to me like you do want to get singed.”

“He wants it,” Sansa murmured. “But I can’t give him all that he wants.”

“But how do you know that? I mean, you might find that you keep wanting more, keeping wanting to get closer.”

Sansa shook her head. “No.”

“Okay, you’re weirdly certain about that.”

“I am.”

“So you want a taste? Just a taste.”

“Yes. Is that something I can do? Just have a taste?”

Margaery frowned thoughtfully. “Well, I think you can, but it all depends on Jon. Is he capable of letting you have a taste and then letting you go?”

Sansa sighed. Would a man who became a vampire for the sole purpose of stalking her through each of her incarnations be capable of letting her go after just a taste? “I don’t think so.”

“Then unfortunately, there is your answer.”

Except that didn’t satisfy Sansa, nor did it put an end to it for her. How many lifetimes had he controlled situations so that they ended up together? Why couldn’t she control this one? Why couldn’t she have some power and decide what she wanted, how it would be done, and when it would end?

This wasn’t about him and what he wanted. Why should it be? It had always been about him before hadn’t it? So this time it would be about _her_ and what _she_ wanted. If she wanted a taste, then she should be able to have her taste. And when she was finished with it, she should be able to say it's over and have it actually _be_ over. 

Screw him and what he wanted. Screw him and making decisions for her and messing with her free will. This life was about _her_ and what _she_ wanted. 

“But you know…maybe what you need is some distraction,” Margaery said. 

Sansa sat up, her interest piqued. “Oh?”

“Well, I mean, if Mr. Targaryen gets under your skin so much but you don’t want to do anything about it with _him_ , maybe you could channel that tension into someone else. It might take the edge off.”

Sansa blinked. “You mean kiss someone else?”

Margaery laughed. “Sure. Kiss, make out, fuck – whatever.”

Now that idea was lodged in her brain. Kiss someone else. She could kiss _someone else_. Just to see what it was like, just to see if she could. There was nothing that said Jon had to be her first kiss. He’d probably like it if he was, but Sansa didn’t really want to give him that. 

“You think I could get someone to kiss me?”

Margaery laughed again. “You could get someone to kiss you tonight, Sansa. I guarantee you.”

Now Sansa was even more curious. “How?”

Her friend looked at her in surprise. “You don’t have a lot of experience, do you?”

Sansa shook her head, too embarrassed to say she had none. 

Margaery now looked like a woman on a mission. She leaned forward in the booth and whispered, “There’s a cute boy at the end of the bar. He was checking you out when we got here. He’s got dark hair and he’s wearing a blue shirt. Discreetly look over and see if maybe you wouldn’t mind kissing him and we’ll make it happen.”

Sansa wasn’t about to tell her that she didn’t care if he was an ogre at this point. He wasn’t Jon, that was all that mattered to her. She might not be ready to “go all the way”, but if she was going to give herself a taste of Jon tomorrow then she wanted to have a little something for herself. Something that made her feel like a normal woman out on the town with her girlfriend trolling for men. Someone that wasn’t a vampire. Someone that hadn’t stalked her for over a millennia. 

And maybe, because she was still angry with Jon, she wanted to hurt him just a little bit too. 

xxxxxxx

Jon knew it was probably jumping the gun a little to feel as hopeful as he did, but he couldn't help it. Sansa had all but admitted her attraction to him. She'd all but admitted that she'd had wanted to kiss him. How could he not feel hope? How could he not be walking on a cloud? 

Melisandre told him to watch himself. To not get too excited but Jon couldn't help it. There was hope. It was small, but it was there. And that was more than he'd thought he'd ever get. 

When she arrived that afternoon for their next sparring session with Heartsbane and Longclaw, he had lunch waiting for her. He found he was a bit obsessed with feeding her. He couldn't help it. She needed some meat on her bones, and after watching her tear into food with such gusto, Jon knew that Petyr probably fed her, but only a minimal amount and with nothing hearty and delicious. He wanted Sansa to have everything she was ever deprived of, even if some of those things, like love, she did not want from him. 

As they ate, he sensed rather quickly that something was on her mind. While Sansa to date wasn't a chatterbox, she was even more subdued than usual. 

"Food okay?" he asked as he stuffed a piece of cheese in his mouth. 

She nodded and munched on a carrot. Her expression gave nothing away. 

"You're thinking something," he said. 

She finished chewing and placed her hands in her lap. She looked at him, and if his heart beat it would have gave a lurch. Gods, she was beautiful. She seemed almost glowing to him today, and her red hair seemed even redder. Was it just him, or was there something special about her today?

"I am," she said. 

"What is it?"

She sucked her bottom lip into her mouth and looked down. "I've been thinking."

"Yes?"

"It's not easy for me to say because I'm not at all experienced in this sort of thing..."

"What sort of thing, Sansa?" he asked softly. "You can ask me anything. Tell me anything."

She lifted her eyes to the table. "I've been thinking about what happened yesterday."

Jon's breath, slight as it was, hitched. "Yes?" he croaked. 

He noted the color of her cheeks. They were starting to turn red. Oh, this was good. 

"You were right about what you said. I did want to kiss you."

 _Stake me_ , he thought. _Stake me dead_. He wanted her to repeat that in front of Mel. 

“And?” He hoped he sounded calm, because he didn’t feel calm. He felt like he could do a dance that would have made First Sansa pleased. 

She looked at him now. “I think you should know I kissed someone last night.”

That he hadn’t been expecting at all. That did in fact feel like a stake to the heart. He lost what little breath he head. 

“I went out with Margaery last night,” she continued. “I kissed a boy at a bar like a normal girl.” She sighed. “It was…I mean, it was a little wet—”

“Sansa—”

“I’d already made up my mind that I wanted to kiss you, and that I was going to ask you if I could. I didn’t want to give you my first kiss because I wanted something for myself. And, in the spirit of being honest, I wanted to hurt you a little bit too. Obviously I still have some anger to work through.”

“Who was it?” Jon managed to ask. 

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me,” he growled and pushed away from the table. “I’d like to remove his tongue from his mouth. Then his head from his body.”

“So I guess a kiss isn’t just a kiss anymore?”

“Don’t make jokes, Sansa,” he snapped. 

“You’ve inserted yourself into every one of my lives. Is there any life I didn’t choose you? Is there any life I chose someone else over you?”

“No,” he said, glaring down at her. “Because your soul knows mine. Even if you weren’t consciously aware of it, we were connected. Your soul reached for mine every time.”

Now she pushed away from the table, and they stood at opposite sides of it. “All right, let’s have the reincarnation discussion for a minute. Petyr made sure I learned about different religions and belief systems and this is actually a pretty hot topic.”

“Go on.”

“Some believe that you travel with the same people, and that you learn lessons in each life to push your soul forward toward enlightenment. There is nothing in the texts that say you’re supposed to spend each life with the same person as a vampire who has not changed, who has not evolved—”

“Well, that’s debatable. You don’t live for as long as I have without evolving.”

“You have spent your entire vamp life recreating something that happened between us eons ago. There’s no change, there’s no evolving, it’s the same thing over and over again. What if you’ve impeded my soul from growing? From evolving into the next plane? What if you and Petyr have held me back from the lessons I was supposed to have learned? Are you going to feed me the same bullshit he fed me when he taught me this and say that my lesson and my purpose was to complete a life with him unimpeded by _you_?”

Jon’s eyes bore into her, blazing with fury. Then, slowly, by degrees the fire left him and his shoulders slumped. “No,” he whispered. 

“I kissed a boy last night because I wanted to. Because I wanted something for myself that didn’t involve you and didn’t involve Petyr. And yet I find that I…” She looked down again, a blush rising on her cheeks. 

“That you what?” he asked gently. 

“That I still want to kiss you,” she said quietly. “I’m not sure what that says about me and please,” she looked up at him, “for the love of God, do not tell me it’s because of our souls.”

He shook his head and held up his hands. “I won’t.”

“So here’s the thing. I don’t want to put any kind of meaning on it. I don’t want you to start getting all romantic and crap on me. I just want to kiss you and….get it out of my system. See what it’s like. Just to try it and satisfy my curiosity. And then we can move on.”

“Okay,” he said with a nod. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Is it though? Is it okay? I mean, if you start waxing poetic about the First Sansa I’m going to impale myself on Heartsbane.”

He huffed a humorless laugh and shook his head. “No. I won’t start waxing poetic. This will be a kiss freely given from you to me. I won’t push for anything more, and I won’t do anything more unless you want it and you ask for it.”

“I do want to make one other thing clear.”

“Yes?”

“You’re kissing me. Not her. Not any of the others. It’s me, as I am now in this life.”

“I know.”

She nodded. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but it didn’t matter much. This was still about her, not him. She felt a jolt of nerves when he started walking around the table toward her. She put her hands at her sides and braced herself. 

He stopped until they were at least a foot apart. He frowned. “It’s often best to go into a kiss not looking as though you’re prepared to fight me.”

“Well, I can’t really speak for the other lives, but it appears in this one we have a bit of a…contentious relationship. I call you out on your bullshit and you don’t like it.”

He laughed softly. “Yes, there is that. However, in light of kissing, we should probably put some of that aside.”

She nodded and forced herself to relax, which was to say she tried at least to give the appearance of relaxing even though nothing about her internally was calm. 

“I’m going to touch you,” he told her. “I’m going to draw you into my arms.” 

She wondered if he was aware of how his voice shook. Probably not. He was back to intense Jon with the laser eyes boring into her with that needful look in them. 

She nodded. “Okay.”

“It’s customary to hold me back.”

She shot him a look. “Yeah, I kind of figured that, thanks.”

He stepped closer to her and she didn’t even try to hide her racing heart. He slipped his arms around her and her breath caught. She heard his own hitch too, and then she wound her arms around his waist as he pressed her closer still. 

He gazed down at her in a mixture of awe and looking about ready to cry. “Whenever you’re ready,” he whispered. 

Petyr had always been a fan of ripping the bandaid (or bandage) right off, so Sansa figured perhaps that would fit here. She lurched forward and pressed her lips to his and then realized that there was no finesse at all to it. 

Jon took over though, saving her from this embarrassment and simply moved his head a bit, and opening his mouth just enough to cause her lips to settle better and more comfortably against his own. 

He tasted a bit like the cheese he’d just had and something…metallic. She figured it had to be blood, but strangely it didn’t bother her as she thought it might. No, instead, she found herself leaning in further to him. When his hands came up to frame her face and he slipped his tongue along the bottom of her lip, she moaned and parted her mouth more. When his tongue touched hers they shared a moan. 

Sansa was conscious only of his lips moving against hers and the feel of his tongue touching her own. His scent filled her nose and his hands holding her face as though she was something to be cherished made her dizzy. _All_ of it made her dizzy. 

With each passing moment, with each pull and press of their lips, Sansa felt herself losing the ground under her feet. He was fire, singing her. He was water, carrying her out to sea, dragging her under, deeper and deeper. 

She broke the kiss when it felt like just too much and placed her hands on his chest. She was panting, and so was he, though she found that comical since he hardly needed that much breath – or any at all. 

“Sansa,” he said hoarsely.

“That was…that was good,” she said. “I think we should do something now. Like spar. Or whatever.” She was afraid to look at up at him, afraid of what might be on her face for him to read. 

“Okay, he whispered and slipped his hands from her face. 

She spun away from him and headed out of the dining room. She was halfway down the hall when she realized she’d gone the wrong way. Jon didn’t say a word, just waited for her to circle back.


	18. Chapter Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shorter chapter than the others because I'm feeling a little rusty...

Jon passed over Heartsbane to Sansa while he held Longclaw in his hand. She took it without pomp and circumstance, and he had to remind himself that Heartsbane meant nothing to her. It hadn't meant much to The First Sansa either. But, for Jon, it meant Sam and friendship. The term he would use now was "brother from another mother."

He watched her parry and thrust with an imaginary opponent. Watched her swing the sword in an arc. When she lunged forward, Jon could see her arm muscles flex in the short-sleeved shirt she wore, and how her tight black workout pants accentuated her strong thigh muscles. He'd been physically aware of Sansa before, but now that they'd kissed, now that he'd _finally tasted her_ , it was all he could focus on. 

That and how he was going to get another kiss out of her. 

And he knew that kiss had affected her as well. She'd had a decidedly glazed look in her eyes after and she had headed completely in the wrong direction on her way out of the dining room. 

She turned to him then, sword thrust forward and pointed at him with a smirk on her face. Jon smirked back and lifted Longclaw. Her smirk fell away as did her sword and she closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. Jon lowered Longclaw and stepped forward. "Sansa? What's wrong?"

"Another vision. Not...not from your blood. I see you, from a great distance, there's an army closing in on you at all sides. You're...I can tell you're a mess - blood and dirt and I'm worried...now there are horses pounding behind me and I see Father..." Her eyes popped open. "What was that?"

Jon took a chance and slid closer to her. "You look spooked, love," he said, his voice low and intimate. 

She met his gaze straight on. "What was it? What did I see?"

"You saw me fighting Ramsay and his men when we took back Winterfell."

"Did he almost best you?"

"Yes. But you had sent in reinforcements."

"With...Father?"

"With Littlefinger, yes. He sent the Vale army in at your request."

"Vale...what is the Vale?"

"It's where House Arryn rested. Littlefinger was Robin Arryn's stepfather, and Robin Arryn was your cousin. Have you not read the diary I gave you?"

"No. I haven't. I tried and I decided that since I'm not her I don't need to know about her," she said bitterly. "But I keep seeing things so apparently I should read it." She moved backwards a few steps and extended Heartsbane. "Ready?"

"You don't want talk about what you saw?"

"Nope. I want to fight."

"Sparring, Sansa."

"To-may-to, to-mah-to."

He lunged forward, hoping to catch her off guard. He should have known better. Her reflexes were quick. It was obvious she was well trained, and while Jon was impressed with her skill, he hated the way that skill came about. She moved with grace and precision, and when she went from using her right to her left hand, he was even more blown away. 

They ended with their swords pushed together, bodies inches apart. Sweat covered her brow, strands of her red hair that had escaped her ponytail clung to the sides of her face like little red whips. She glared at him. "You know you can end it," she said. "You have the strength I don't."

There was a double meaning there, he thought. He tilted his head to the side and sniffed the air. "I can smell you again."

That did the trick. She let out a roar and shoved him away, and kicked out with her foot, catching him in the stomach. Jon stumbled back, catching himself before he fell, and laughed as he looked at her. She was panting, clearly furious, and gorgeous. 

"I knew that would get you," he said. 

She rolled her eyes at him, that seeming to take some of the sting out of her. She lowered Heartsbane and he came over and held out his hand. She handed the sword over to him and he took it with a smile. Once the sword was in his hand he said, "I can really smell you though."

"I'm _sweating_ ," she argued. 

"Arousal is different," he explained as he carried the swords to the sword hangers mounted on the wall. He'd bring Longclaw to his bedroom later and ask Melisandre to enchant Heartsbane with the same spell she'd used to enchant the phone Jon had given her. He didn't want Petyr or Kinvara to see it and risk her life. "Arousal can be a little tangy and musky."

Sansa rubbed her forehead. "Can we not have this discussion, please?"

"I just wonder - is it just fighting me or does fighting often arouse you?"

"Jon—"

"Have you ever touched yourself, Sansa?"

"Oh my God, did you really just ask me that?"

"I'm just wondering if you've found a way to release the tension caused by us sparring that doesn't include _more_ sparring. Sex and masturbation can be another way to help you feel...relaxed. More so than fighting me even."

She just stared at him looking a mixture of baffled, embarrassed, and incredulous. 

"Would it help if I admitted that I touched myself?" he asked. Okay, so perhaps he was having more fun than he should with this. She liked keeping him on his toes and rattling him, well, he could do the same to her. "Almost every night when I think of you—"

"Stop it!" she burst out and put her hands on her ears. A completely childish gesture that had Jon thinking he'd gone too far. "No, I haven't," she said, dropping her hands. "Father - _Petyr_ \- has the same senses as you. You think I could have done something like that without him knowing? Do you know how many questions he'd have?"

"Yet he wanted you to lure me in."

"Using my innocence."

"He's a pervert. He always has been."

"Says the centuries-old old man trying to get with an eighteen year old." 

He shot her a look and she laughed.

He smiled, despite the comment. Her laugh. He loved her laugh. "Is it possible we're having a moment?" he asked, wondering if perhaps he shouldn't have called attention to it. 

"Maybe," she said lightly and spun away. If they were having a moment, and Jon was of the opinion that they had been, then of course she wouldn’t let it last long. He sighed and followed after her, still wondering if he was going to get another kiss today.

***********

Sansa lay in bed staring at Heartsbane propped up in her open closet. She kept the door open so she could look at it, clothes pushed aside for viewing purposes. It was a beautiful sword. When Jon had complimented her after on her skills with it, she'd reminded him that she was a weapon after all. He'd gotten broody after that, and she'd had to tease him out of it. Using a line from an episode of _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_ she'd seen once, she told him that he'd obviously had a lot of time to hone his brooding skills. He'd called her a brat then and snapped out of it. 

She rolled over onto her back thinking of him. His kiss. His mouth on hers. His scent. He always smelled so good. And his laugh. How that low rumble of his just sort of rolled right through her. 

She squeezed her eyes shut now, wanting to stop thinking about him and yet not wanting to either. He infuriated her. But she loved teasing him. He was such a broody baby. But she loved calling him out on his shit. 

_"Have you ever touched yourself, Sansa?"_

_Why, no, Jon, I haven't,_ she thought. She bit her lip and rubbed her thighs together. 

There was no one here to hear her or to smell her. She could...try it?

Sliding a hand down her body, she slipped it under the elastic of her panties and sought out her vagina. She rubbed herself and shivered when she definitely felt something pleasurable course through her. Relief. 

But it wasn't enough. 

Biting her lip, she spread her labia majora and used her middle finger to stroke up her slit towards her clitoris. Clit. People called it a clit. 

She liked her clit being touched and so she used her finger to rub at it. That was okay, but not really what she wanted, so she lightened up her touch and swirled her finger around it using just the tip of her fingernail. 

She gasped. Okay, yup, that was it. She did it again. And again. And again. Her hips began to move of their own accord as though seeking more, reaching for her finger. She wondered what would happen if she flicked it with the tip of her nail. 

So she did. And gasped again. 

She alternated then, her hips gyrating, to circles and then flicks of her finger. It built, the pressure. The need for the release of it. It kept up and kept up, her legs tightening, her whole body tightening, her vagina growing slicker, and then finally, she felt the climax like a wave crashing over her. She cried out. Her body jerking under the pleasure and intensity of it. She felt the pulse and contractions of her vagina like a heartbeat and she lay in a heap, panting. Sated. 

As she began to drift off she realize that when her climax had come, it was Jon’s name she had called out.


	19. Chapter Eighteen

The sound of her phone ringing jolted Sansa awake in the morning, and she reached over to answer it. 

“Hello?” she croaked, only half awake. 

“Hello, my darling. Sleep well?”

Petyr. She scrambled to sit up. “Hello, Father,” she said. 

“Are you ready for me tomorrow, my sweet?”

Tomorrow. Was it time already?

“I am,” she said. “I am excited to see you. I’ve missed you and mother so much.”

That was only partially true. She didn’t miss him, but she did miss Mother. 

“We are looking forward to seeing you as well. And how is our Targaryen Prince?”

“He is…eager.”

“Eager for you?”

“Yes, it makes me very uncomfortable, father.” Another half-truth. 

“You’ve not given him anything though, right? You’ve not given him your precious maiden-head?”

“Of course not, Father,” she said adamantly. _Though I touched myself last night and at my peak it was him I cried out for._

“Let him dangle. It’ll be all the sweeter when we lure him to his end.”

“And how are we going to do that exactly?”

“First, you’re going to poison him. Then, we’ll take him somewhere no one can hear him scream while I watch you toy with him. And then you’ll kill him.”

Sansa hoped he couldn’t hear her heart racing through the phone. “That sounds wonderful, Father, especially after all the lies he’s told me about us. How would you like me to torture him exactly? I feel I should prepare.”

“A blood-letting,” Petyr replied. His tone made her shudder. It was the same tone he’d used when he was upset with her and was about to punish her. She thought of her Maurice dead in her bed. “A nick here, a nick there… it’s torture for a vampire to feel their blood draining. To feel their life seeping out…and then you’ll either stake him or decapitate him.”

Sansa thought she might be sick. 

She didn’t want to kill Jon.

 _She didn’t want to kill Jon._

Her mind was racing as well as her heart. In all the ways Jon Targaryen infuriated her, and she found herself wanting to _protect_ him. How had this happened? It wasn’t their pact either, or the promise that he’d help her with Mother. No, this was…

Oh, God. 

Did she actually… _care_ about him? When had she actually started to _like_ him? Attraction was one thing. One could be attracted to someone, but not like them, though in all her studies she had learned that typically the more one disliked someone the less attractive they could become. But attraction could happen regardless. She remembered a Lifetime movie her Mother liked in which all a couple did was argue and then it came out that really they had loved each other the whole time. 

Did she…?

No. 

But somewhere between him kidnapping her, irritating the hell out of her, drinking his blood, and then sparring with him while putting up with his pouty pants behavior, and _kissing_ him, she ended up _liking_ him. 

She still wanted to kick his ass, but you could still like someone and want to kick their ass, right?

She was so confused. And worried. And scared. She wasn’t ready for Father. Too much had happened and she was so afraid that he knew, that somehow he knew she was lying to him. 

“Are you still there, my dear?” Petyr asked. 

Was it her or did he sound suspicious. 

“I am, Father, I’m sorry. I was thinking of what to use for the bloodletting.”

He laughed delightedly. “That’s my blood-thirsty girl. I’ll meet you at the hotel at ten a.m. tomorrow. Be ready.”

“I will be eagerly awaiting you,” she chirped.

They hung up and Sansa felt dizzy. She sank down in the bed and told herself she was not going to throw up. Her hands shaking, she reached over for the phone Jon gave her on the nightstand and sent him a text: _I need to see you._

He replied instantly: _I was just about to text you. We definitely need to speak today. When?_

She texted back: _Soon._

His reply back made her smile somewhat: _I’ll send a car. It’ll be waiting out front. Are you all right, Sansa?_

She wasn’t, not really, but she assured him she was all right and then went to take a shower. 

xxxxxxxx

The first thing Sansa wanted to do when she saw Jon was hug him. Maybe kiss him again. Instead, she stood as still as could be in the doorway to his living room and stared at him. He was in jeans and a black t-shirt, no socks. His hair looked damp. He looked…sexy. Inviting. And when he smiled at her, she did something she hated to do most in the world: she started to cry. Sob, really. 

Of course he was worried, because he was Jon and he worried and doted over her endlessly. He stopped short of taking her in his arms and kept his arms at his sides rigidly as though fighting the urge the hold her. 

Sansa didn’t care anymore. She lunged at him, throwing everything right out the window – the walls, the distance, her animosity, and buried her face in his shoulder as she wrapped her arms about his neck. At first, he didn’t move. And then, his arms came around her and he held her tightly against him. She heard him take a shuddering breath. 

“My sweet girl,” he murmured. “What has happened?”

“Petyr. He called this morning. He’ll be here at ten a.m. tomorrow. I knew he was coming, we both knew, but I’m not ready. I know too much, and I’m…I’m afraid.”

Jon drew back, keeping her caged in his arms as he wiped her tears away with the pads of his fingers. “I don’t believe that. You’re not afraid of anything.”

 _I’m afraid of you_ , she thought. _I’m afraid of what I’ve felt for you since I laid eyes on you._

“I’m afraid now,” she said softly. 

“Sansa—”

“He told me how he wants me to kill you,” she whispered, her eyes welling up with tears again. She pushed out of his arms then and walked away, trying to get ahold of herself. “This is all your fault,” she spat. 

“I know,” he sighed, sounding so resolute and tired. “I know it is. I shouldn’t have changed to find you—”

“Not that,” she said and folded her arms across her chest angrily. “It’s your fault I’m blubbering like an idiot right now. It’s your fault I don’t want to kill you. I mean, I actually want to protect you from him.” She finished on a laugh that was bordering on manic. “What have you done to me?”

He remained silent and that just infuriated her. She turned around and found him standing there, arms hanging loose by his sides, his mouth open, and his expression so soft, open, and vulnerable. He looked…awed. 

“Sansa,” he whispered and took a step toward her. 

She held up her hands. “Don’t!” He stopped. “Just…” she shut her eyes. “Just let me work this out.”

Silence. She looked at him, tears in her eyes. “I don’t like this. I hate crying. I hate being vulnerable.” On a whisper she finished with, “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he said softly. 

She wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffed. “Do you even know who I am?”

“I do,” he said with a nod and shuffled closer. 

She lifted her chin. “Who am I, Jon?”

“You’re Sansa Stark,” he said. “You were kidnapped as a baby by Petyr Baelish.”

Now she started to sob in earnest and he started for her. She didn’t stop him. “You were taken away and raised as a weapon.” When he was upon her he framed her face in his hands and gazed down at her with piercing gray eyes. “You’re the bravest, strongest, and fiercest woman I know.”

“Well, geez, don’t go making me swoon now,” she said through her tears. 

“No jokes,” he whispered. “Not now.”

“What do you want me to say then?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, and kissed her. 

She gasped into it, parting her mouth, and Jon used the opportunity to slip his tongue inside. She gripped his waist and tried to keep up with his kisses. They were hard and deep and passionate and she felt as though all she could do right then was hold on. 

“You’re smart,” he whispered when he broke the kiss and began to nuzzle under her jaw. “You’re resourceful. You’re kinder than you want me to think.” He kissed her chin and then her cheeks. “You love your Mother with all your heart.” He looked at her, smiled gently. “And you’re the single most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“I have a temper,” she said quietly. “I’m not at all pleasant. And I’m not nice to you.”

“I’m not innocent. You have reminded me of that on more than one occasion. You going to take that all back now?”

“No.”

He laughed softly. “Nor should you.” He kissed her again, quickly. “I’m glad you care what happens to me.”

“Yeah, I figured you would be,” she muttered. 

He smiled and pecked her nose. She thought she could comment on how freely he was touching her now, and perhaps accuse him of not respecting some boundaries but she…didn’t want to. 

“I’m scared, Jon,” she admitted. 

“Come sit with me, love. Let’s talk and come up with a plan, okay?”

She nodded. “Okay.”

Taking her hand, he led her to the couch and they sat down together. He wrapped an arm about her shoulders and drew her into his side. She allowed her head to rest on his shoulder and let the solid strength of him support her. 

"Now," he said. "Why don't you tell me what he said."


	20. Chapter 20

Melisandre joined them for their planning session. When she came in and saw Sansa curled up on the couch next to Jon with her head on his shoulder, Jon shot her a look. The look was loud and clear: Do not say a word. Do not draw attention to it. Do not ruin this for me.

Melisandre simply ducked her head, smiling a little, and sat down in her favorite chair near the fireplace. Jon brushed a kiss in Sansa’s hair and closed his eyes, breathing in her scent. He was the one that was going to ruin it if he kept touching her and kissing her. So far she wasn’t spurning his advances, but if he kept it up she might. Sansa liked her space, and she had clear and defined boundaries. He had best remember them.

She sat up, the moment lost, but Jon had a feeling it had less to do with him and more to do with Melisandre being in the room now. She sat away from him, but not very far, and Jon hoped that when he looked her it wasn’t with abject longing.

“So, Petyr is coming tomorrow,” Sansa said to Mel and then glanced at Jon. “And I got out of him what his plans are for me regarding killing Jon.”

Melisandre pursed her lips together. “Do tell.”

Sansa heaved in a shaky breath and scraped a hand through her hair. Instead of looking at either Melisandre or Jon while she spoke, she stared at the coffee table. “He wants me to lure Jon out and drug him. Then he wants him taken somewhere private where,” she paused and winced, “where no one will hear him scream. And then he wants to me to perform a blood-letting while he watches.”

Melisandre bolted up from her seat and started shouting in Valyrian. Sansa gaped at her and Jon stood and held up a hand. “Mel, stop.”

“He’s a monster!” Melisandre shouted.

“In case you haven’t noticed, so am I,” Jon said dryly.

“You’re a King. And a savior!” Melisandre sputtered, as though she could not believe Jon didn’t know that.

“I’m a vampire. I was a king. I was a…I was never a savior. I did what had to be done.”

“No one else could have done it but you.”

“Well, let’s not forget that you also thought my aunt could have done it.”

Melisandre clamped her mouth shut and sat down, her dress billing out around her. “You did it together.”

“I’m not a savior,” Jon said softly. “And even if I was, I haven’t been in centuries.”

“We need you again,” Melisandre said. “If Littlefinger raises the White Walkers again, we’ll need you. I always knew we would."

“So you've said,” Jon said softly. “Just calm down.”

Melisandre sat back, brooding almost as well as he did.

“Obviously I do not plan on doing this,” Sansa said slowly, glancing at Melisandre. “And that’s why I’m here, telling you, so that we can come up with a counterplan.”

“Is he bringing an army of his own?” Jon asked.

“He’ll probably bring some. He doesn't have any army like you, more like a small gathering...? He relies mostly on Kinvara."

“And you know his entourage?” Jon asked.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll start there.”

"I just want my Mother," Sansa said. "If we get her away from him then I don't care after that if he knows I'm not on his side anymore."

"But we need information on the White Walkers," Melisandre said. 

"I'm going to do my best to get that information out of him as soon as possible," Sansa said. "It shouldn't be hard; he has no reason not to tell me his plans."

"Do not put yourself at risk to get it," Jon said.

"I won't. I'm sure he's chomping at the bit to tell me all about it."

"What we need to do is let him plan the night of my demise," Jon said thoughtfully, "But then we trap him." 

"But how do I get my Mother to safety?"

"I need to know who his entourage is by sight. I need to know what he does while he's here. Will he spend all his time with you? Will she be with him? We might not be able to do anything until that night and hope that she is some place we can get to her and dismantle anyone he may have guarding her."

Sansa jumped to her feet and began to pace. "I'm starting to feel nauseous. I can't shake the feeling that he knows about us."

That caused Jon to perk up. "Us?"

She rolled her eyes at him. "You know what I mean." She gestured to Mel and him. "Us. This." She looked at Mel. "Can't you do something to stop him?"

"If I could, don't you think I would have?"

"Fair point. Can you do something about Kinvara?"

Mel's red lips flattened into a straight line. "I would love to. She's a slippery fish, that one. As magick has evolved, so have we and our own magick, yet she has dabbled with some dark forces that have changed her abilities."

"Are you saying that she's stronger than you?"

"In some ways, yes."

"What the hell is this then?" Sansa demanded. "Is there no hope for us? You're our Hail Mary and you can't defeat his?"

"Sansa, calm down," Jon said gently. 

"Calm down?" she exclaimed and spun to face him. "Calm down?! He plays with people. He lays traps for them. I've watched it. He's done it to me. And God only knows what he'll do if he already knows that you and I are plotting behind his back."

Her words. So much like First Sansa the night before he was about to go into battle with Ramsay Bolton. He remembered standing in that tent where he'd been strategizing with Tormund and Davos and Sansa had been looking on. She’d warned him that Ramsay laid traps and that Jon was not prepared for the battle. Jon had been insulted by that, as though all he’d done in the Night’s Watch had been for naught. She’d essentially told him that if he failed, she would kill herself before going back to Ramsay. Their argument had been heated and Jon, worried for her, scared for her, for them both, had promised to protect her, to never let that monster touch her again. He remembered wanting nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her. 

He wanted to kiss her again now. 

“I don’t want to die,” she said softly, hanging her head as though it was a shameful thing to want. 

Jon stood and looked over at Melisandre. “Leave us, please.”

Melisandre nodded and left and once she had gone, Jon took Sansa in his arms. She didn’t fight him, which surprised him despite how she’d initiated contact earlier. She reminded him rather of a cat – it had to be on her terms, and only for short period of times. 

“I won’t let you die,” he said roughly. “I won’t let him hurt you again, Sansa. Never again.”

She looked up at him with tears in her eyes. “How can you promise such a thing? You haven’t been able to keep that promise before, have you? Because I’ve died by his hand in the past.”

“Yes, but this time I have you on my side. I have an army. I am forewarned of his plans.”

“Forewarned is forearmed?”

“Precisely.”

“Don’t say that word,” she said and made a face. “He says that a lot.”

“Besides,” Jon said, gently tucking some hair behind her ear, “you are forgetting one important factor here.”

She blinked. “What’s that?”

“You. Sansa, you are trained. You know him better than anyone. Even better than I do. You can fight. You are strong; you are brave. You were trained to fight me so it stands to reason you can fight him.”

She pushed out of his arms and Jon reluctantly let her go. “I can’t always guess what he’s going to do. I am sometimes wrong when I try. But that’s part of his game, see, to keep me and everyone else on their toes. He doesn’t like to be predictable because he likes the element of surprise. He likes to keep people off kilter. Me included. I’ve spent my whole life doing what he wants. And any time I didn’t, I paid for it.” Her eyes welled up in tears and she wound her arms around herself. “I’ve had some freedom from that and now he’s coming back and all I can think is he knows. Somehow he knows.”

“If it turns out that he does then you leave, Sansa. You come here and I will keep you safe.”

“I won’t leave without Mother. She might be as good as dead if he does know anything.”

“What can I do? Tell me, Sansa, what can I do to make you feel better right now?”

She shook her head. “Nothing. There’s absolutely nothing you can do. Not until I face him and see what he knows, if anything.”

“Can I hold you for a while?” he asked softly. “Can I do that at least?”

Looking suddenly awkward about the whole thing, Sansa nodded and dropped her arms. She came over to him and allowed him to wrap her up in his arms. He kissed her forehead and the tip of her nose and then, after a questioning look and a nod from her, he kissed her on the mouth. 

Then he drew her with him to the couch and there they stayed for a long while. 

xxxxxxx

Sansa was up at the break of dawn the following morning. It wasn’t as though she’d slept any anyway. She’d laid in bed, thinking of her sad life, the little bit of freedom she’d had, and how today it was about to crash down around her. 

Fear coiled through her and she attempted to meditate and clear her mind as she’d been taught so that she could calm her heartrate and control herself again. What she had to do was get back into the mindset of his little automaton. His puppet. She had to think like the weapon she was and not the girl who had discovered a brother, seen her lives through someone else’s eyes, and felt their joys and sorrows. 

She had to put Jon aside. And Robb. She had to think of herself, and she had to think of Mother to get through seeing Petyr for the first time.

 _Remember who you are_ , she told herself. _Remember what you are._

It helped her focus, and like a switch, she turned off. Not completely, but enough to not let her fear overwhelm her. 

She went for a run. She showered, and ate breakfast. She borrowed duct tape from the front desk and taped the phone Jon gave her under the bedframe. 

She did Tai Chi to further relax, and by the time Petyr arrived with Kinvara by his side, Sansa was his perfect little weapon once more. She did not ask where Mother when he hugged her and smiled broadly at her. He even sniffed at her. “You smell like him,” he said with a curl to his lip. 

“I have missed you, Father,” she said. And the thing was, it wasn’t a complete lie. He was the devil. But he was the devil she knew. And now she knew too much. 

“I have missed you too, sweetling. Have you been a good girl for me?”

She nodded solemnly. “I have.”

“Well, I think we should check just to make sure?”

She gave no reaction. “Pardon?”

Petyr’s smile was mischievous. Slimy. “Lay down on the bed, sweetling. Kinvara is going to check and make sure you are still a maid.”


End file.
